


So You’ve Left Your Fiancé And Moved In With Sue Sylvester

by ellydash



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Female Friendship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellydash/pseuds/ellydash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the first weeks of summer, a newly single Emma shows up on Sue’s doorstep needing a place to stay. Moving in with Sue and Shannon, however, results in some unexpected changes Emma isn’t sure she’s ready to accept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read [Don't Need You To Say We're All Right](http://archiveofourown.org/works/333875l), this fic is in the same universe (but is written as a standalone, so it isn’t necessary to have read the other first). Thanks to merkintosh for the title of Emma's post-high school seminar, and to themillersson, whose enthusiasm encouraged me to keep writing! I am immensely grateful to abluegirl for applying her awesome beta skills to this behemoth, and for giving me so much useful information about childbirth.

When Sue throws her front door open, Emma feels belated panic billow in her stomach and chest, because she realizes, for the first time, that Sue could say no. She could say no. Emma would have to go to her parents for help. Slink home, admit defeat, and listen to her mother’s barely-concealed pleasure. _You’ve really blown it this time, freaky-deaky. That man isn’t anything great on his own, but he’s a wonderful catch for our little crazy-cakes._

“Dear god, Etta, what’s wrong?” Sue asks, her forehead furrowing into what looks like real concern. “Don’t tell me Clorox filed for bankruptcy?”

For some reason, Sue’s expression is the first thing today that’s made Emma want to cry. She presses her lips together to head off an outburst. Crying isn’t an option right now, she reminds herself. There’ll be plenty of time for that later, when she’s behind a closed bathroom or car door, or maybe underneath her office desk, after she’s given the floor a really good scrubbing. 

“I, uh,” Emma manages, gripping the suitcase handles tighter in her closed fists. “I left him. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You left him,” Sue repeats, flatly.

“Yes. I left Will.”

“Well, thank you for clarifying, Elsie, I thought you were talking about Mr. Clean. Did he hurt you?”

“Did he – hurt – no. No, he didn’t hurt me. Will would never hurt me –”

“That,” Sue says, “is not an assumption I feel comfortable making about anyone, in light of recent events. I’m glad to hear it. Did the stink of self-righteousness leeching from his oversized pores finally prove too much for the integrity of your delicate, avian nostrils? Because, quite frankly, I can’t blame you if that’s the case. I’ve been thinking about investing in an oxygen mask myself.”

Emma’s starting to feel the weight of her suitcases straining her biceps and forearms, but she can’t put them down. Not until she knows if she can stay. It’d be too humiliating to have to pick them back up after being rejected.

“He wanted to –” She flushes with embarrassment and looks away, unable to meet Sue’s eyes or clarify further. “And I didn’t. For the millionth time. I can’t do it anymore, Sue. I’m just, I’m tired. I can’t keep trying so hard to – We aren’t working. He deserves better.”

“You do too,” Sue says, evenly. “Don’t you forget it.”

Tears threaten her again at this unexpected kindness. Emma takes a deep breath. “Can I stay with you? Only for a little while. Until I get on my feet. I know Shannon’s been staying here since she left Cooter, and I understand if you don’t want another house guest, but I have money, I’m more than happy to pay you whatever rent you think is appropriate, I just don’t know how I can find a place on such short notice and I really can’t live with my parents, Will said he’d never ask me to leave but I can’t stand the idea of –”

“Emma,” Sue interrupts. “I’m going to stop you right there before your larynx collapses from the effort of all that chirping.” She places a protective hand on top of her belly. “Of course you can stay. As long as you want.” 

The sudden relief that floods her makes Emma tremble. 

“Thank you,” she says, meaning it more than she’s meant anything in a very long time. “Oh, thank you so much.”

Sue waves a hand. “Don’t mention it. Now get inside, you’re letting in more hot air than a Mitt Romney campaign rally.”

The house is a refrigerator, a welcome change from the oppressive heat of an Ohio afternoon in early June, but Emma shivers nonetheless as she walks down the hallway, wishing she’d thought to bring more cardigans with her. One of the trophy shelves is empty, she notices, layered with dust Emma can see a mile away, and Sue says without looking back, “Cleared some space for Little Susie’s trophies.”

“Don’t you – isn’t that a while away?”

“You know, Ida, for someone with eyes the size of small dinner plates, you have an _astonishing_ lack of vision. My daughter doesn’t have to cheer to be exceptional. She’s gonna be the first baby in the nation to score an eleven on her five minute APGAR.”

That seems slightly impossible. “And there’s – you have a trophy for that?” 

“Pre-engraved.”

Emma thinks back to that horrible day two months ago in the doctor’s office. The blank, unholy look on Sue’s face when they’d heard the words “chromosomal abnormalities.” Will’s clumsy attempt at reassuring Sue, his hand on her arm, a soft “Sue, I’m so sorry –” and the way Sue had thrown him off with a snarl, shoulders curled forward. She’d said, low and steady, “William, the next time you apologize to me for my child will be the last time we ever have a conversation. Do you understand?”

Yes, Will understood. So had Emma. The calm equanimity of the threat had been, in its own way, more terrifying than any tantrum. 

She wonders now, not for the first time, what life for the new Sylvester will be like with a mother who won’t settle for anything other than the best.

“Emma! What’re you doing here?” 

Shannon’s rushing out of the kitchen to meet them, clutching what looks like a protein shake in one hand. She’s grinning, obviously surprised and pleased by this unexpected visit. The lines on Shannon’s face are all creases from smiling. Emma, on the other hand, has two faint little wrinkles between her eyes, the grooves of a lifelong worrier. 

“Hi, Shannon,” she says, placing the suitcases on the floor and trying to match her smile. It’s a terrible attempt. “That looks good, whatever it is. Could I get you to make me one?”

The distraction tactic doesn’t work. “What’s with the luggage? Going on vacation?”

“Well, Skipper, it seems as though Gilligan here will be staying with us for a while,” Sue interrupts. “I decided I wasn’t nauseated enough by the pungent stench of roast chicken and cheap polyester you’ve contributed to this household. Febreze and floral perfume should be just the thing to catapult me straight from mild queasiness into full-blown projectile vomiting.”

Shannon looks confused. “Staying with us? Is everything okay with you and Will?”

A rush of hot shame rockets up Emma’s neck and into her face. She’d had to tell her news once, wasn’t that enough? The thought of admitting it again, even to a friend, makes her feel exposed, nearly pornographic. 

She shakes her head, swallowing, even though her mouth is completely dry. “No,” she says, and this time, she can’t hold back the tears. “No, it’s most definitely not okay. It hasn’t been for a long time, I think. _I_ haven’t been okay. There’s something really wrong with me.” 

“Hold this, Sue,” Shannon orders, pushing the protein shake in Sue’s direction, and Sue, clearly too surprised at the command to counter with a retort, takes it from her without protest. “Come here, punkin. You come right here. I’ve got you.”

Inside the tight circle of Shannon’s arms, Emma begins to weep, sick with embarrassment but unable to stop herself. Shannon hugs her closely, rocking her back and forth a little, one hand stroking her hair. Emma presses her face against the curve between Shannon’s neck and shoulder, the scratch of Shannon’s polo shirt collar rubbing into her nose. As humiliating as this is, it’s better than having to see the pity in Shannon’s eyes. Emma doesn’t know if she could stand that.

“Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” Shannon murmurs against Emma’s hairline. This is meant to be kind, of course, but it sounds to Emma like a terrible threat. She’s had a lifetime of nothing happening to her. Will was – had been – something, or at least the promise of something. “You’ve got me, and you’ve got Sue here. Between the two of us, we’ll get you whistling Howdy Doody to the hedgehogs in no time.”

Emma has no idea what Shannon means, but she says, in a small, muffled voice, “That sounds nice.” 

“You did the right thing, Ems. You’re real brave, and I’m proud of you.”

She isn’t brave. Shannon’s the brave one, finding the strength to leave Cooter. Even Sue’s braver than she is, facing the uncertainty and challenge of raising a disabled child on her own. Nothing’s brave about being thirty-three and so broken Emma can’t let the best man she’s ever known touch her without screwing her eyes shut and reminding herself that this is Will, and she loves him. 

Sue’s watching them from behind Shannon, arms crossed, looking as though she isn’t exactly sure how to contribute.

“The cleaning products are under the kitchen sink,” she says, finally, and clears her throat. “If you get the impulse to bleach anything, I suggest you start with Beiste’s upper lip.”

___________

After the hallway bathroom’s been properly cried in and subsequently scrubbed down, Emma realizes she isn’t exactly sure where to put her suitcases. Sue’s house only has two bedrooms, the master bedroom/trophy suite, and the guest bedroom/future nursery, where Shannon’s taken up residence. 

“You’re more than welcome to bunk with me,” Shannon offers, rummaging through the refrigerator while Emma peels off the soiled rubber gloves and tosses them into the oversized garbage can. “But I gotta warn you, I’m a cover hog. And I talk in my sleep. Cooter always said –“ She stops, and even though Emma can’t see her face, she’s willing to bet Shannon’s wincing. “Never mind him. Point is, there’s a fair to middling chance I’ll wake you up in the middle of the night with a lot of hootin’ about that chef on Restaurant Impossible. You okay with that?”

“Um,” Emma says, wanting to be polite. She’s a light sleeper, always has been since childhood, when sleeping was that thing she did between waking fears of monsters coming after her in the night. “I could sleep on the couch? I don’t mind.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Sue calls from the dining room. For the last two hours, she’s been busy assembling something electronic on the table that Emma doesn’t want to look at too closely, in case the FBI ever gets involved. “You can share my bed. Just make sure to lie on your back. I don’t want to have to patch up mattress punctures from those pelvic bones of yours.”

Dinner is surprisingly delicious, roast beef with a tangy glaze Emma’s never had before, and she makes sure to compliment Shannon effusively between bites. It’s good to feel hungry. 

Shannon beams with pride. “I’ve been thinking about taking a cooking class this summer,” she says. “Before football training starts. I’ve always loved goofing off in the kitchen, and now –“ She looks shyly between Emma and Sue. “Well, now there’s people to cook for. I’ve never really had that before. Cooter doesn’t like home-cooked meals.”

Pointing her fork in Shannon’s direction, Sue says around a mouthful of green beans, “What that man likes and doesn’t like is none of your concern anymore, Shannon. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring him up at the dinner table. Or in this house, for that matter.” 

“Maybe,” Emma volunteers, after an awkward silence, “Shannon needs to talk about Cooter. It’s good to talk about things, traumatic things, to let your feelings –”

“Emma,” Shannon says, quietly, just as Sue stabs a piece of meat. “It’s okay. Sue’s got a point. We’ll talk about something else. Bringing him up doesn’t help anyone.”

“But I don’t think that’s true. You went through such an awful –”

Sue’s fork clatters down onto the plate, and Emma jumps at the loud sound. Without a word, Sue stands up from her chair, face fixed in a furious grimace, and marches out of the dining room. 

“I don’t understand,” Emma whispers, keeping quiet just in case Sue’s still in hearing distance. “What was that?”

Shannon presses her own fork down into the rice pilaf, turning it slightly. “Between you and me, punkin,” she says, “I guess Sue feels guilty about what happened with me and Coot, even though she’d rather tie herself to a duck’s belly in winter than admit it. I told her straight up Cooter hitting me wasn’t anyone’s fault except his, but she won’t hear it. Or can’t.”

In bed that night, Sue facing the wall, a sleeping, rigid column on the other side of the mattress, Emma mulls over this information. Something about it bothers her. Sue and Cooter had dated before he’d started seeing Shannon. She’d never stopped to consider that Sue might’ve been with him long enough to see at least a flash of Cooter’s true colors. Was that why Sue had been so uncharacteristically kind to Shannon? Had she realized how very near she’d come to needing the same kind of help?

It’s a dark question without an easy answer. She doesn’t want to ask it, even silently. 

Next to Emma, Sue shifts, suddenly, turning over. Even in the dim room, Emma can see the shape of her belly as Sue twists to face her, curving out underneath the tank top she’s worn to bed. She’s gotten noticeably bigger since Emma’s last seen her. In sleep her face is surprisingly smooth, free from the strain of being Sue Sylvester. She looks younger, less like herself, and for a brief, disorienting second Emma has the sense that she’s lying here in bed with someone she’s never met.

When she sleeps, it’s fitful. She dreams about small birds, and wedding rings, and even though she doesn’t know how they go together, it seems so important that she figure it out.

___________

Over the next three days, Will calls again and again. Each time, Emma looks at her phone and weighs the pros and cons of answering. When his name pops up on her screen during a particularly intense moment in _Rambo II_ , an exasperated Sue grabs Emma’s phone out of her hands and informs Will that if he bothers them one more time, she’ll enlist several Cheerios to restrain him in his office, force-funnel a vat of Activia down his throat, and then lock all the McKinley bathrooms. 

“Jamie Lee Curtis is many things, William,” Sue says, “but she is not a liar. That stuff goes through you like greasy children down a water park flume.” 

Will doesn’t call again. 

Emma is surprised at how little she’s cried since she left Will.She’s had only one fleeting sobfest, triggered by last night’s impromptu viewing of _Terms of Endearment_. (Which, in Emma’s opinion, doesn’t seem at all like it should count, because Shannon had cried too, making loud honking sounds all through the hospital scenes, and even Sue had wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and grumbled about pregnancy hormones.) Instead, she’s spending her free time rearranging Sue’s kitchen, which is hopelessly cluttered and in need of a good cleaning, and although Sue makes a lot of spluttering noises in protest, Emma can tell she’s secretly pleased. After all, everybody knows you can’t be properly ready for a baby unless the items in your kitchen cabinets are neatly arranged according to size, color, and rate of use. 

In between label making and zealous spraying, Emma begins putting materials together for the weekly summer course she’ll be offering, “Almost Homeless! Adulthood and You.” Encouraged by Will’s intense enthusiasm for the idea, she’d gone to Figgins a few months before the end of the school year with a proposal for a seminar intended to help recently graduated seniors transition into post-high school life. “Nothing serious,” she’d explained, “just an informal group kicking it real style. I think that’s what the kids call it today. We can chat about the issues facing today’s modern youth, like peer pressure to invest in mutual funds, and how to say no to kegs.”

Of course there’s no money in the budget to support an extra summer class, particularly one designed for former students, but Figgins had graciously granted Emma the use of a classroom on Wednesday evenings, provided she toss in an occasional plug for his church’s low-cost exorcism services. Emma’s happy to pay out of her pocket for materials, because she cares so deeply about preparing these kids for one of the most important transitions of their lives. College had been a shocking experience for Emma, featuring four years of intimidating roommates and disturbingly irregular eating hours at the dining halls. No one had ever warned her that nine o’clock was an acceptable hour for dinner. If just one of her former students goes off to school forearmed with that information, she knows it’ll all be worth the effort. 

Each night, she curls up on her side of Sue’s bed, often restless from the hum of the air conditioner and Sue’s frequent trips to the bathroom. It’s odd, sharing a bed with someone you’re not supposed to touch, someone who, in fact, has declared that any encroachment on her sixty-three percent share of the mattress will result in bed rights being completely withdrawn. It’s odd, but it’s nice, too. The lack of pressure relaxes Emma, makes her breathe more easily. 

The evening before her first class, she lies predictably sleepless, thinking over the discussion topics she’s selected. Emma has five students who have indicated they’re coming, all Will’s former kids, and she can’t help but believe that’s not a coincidence. He’s probably encouraged them behind her back to take the seminar. The thought curdles inside her, and it keeps her eyes open. She doesn’t want his sympathy or his help. Emma’s an excellent educator all on her own, or at least she’s trying to be.

“I can’t sleep when you’re thinking so loudly,” Sue snaps, from the other side of the bed, and Emma jumps. She hadn’t known Sue was awake. 

“Sorry,” she says, turning over, before realizing how ridiculous an apology sounds in this situation. “I’m just – anxious about tomorrow, that’s all. First day jitters, you know how it is.”

“I resent that insinuation, Irma, as someone with nerves of steel and a cult classic exercise VHS entitled _Sue Sylvester: Nerves of Steel_. It’s huge in Estonia.”

The best way to have a conversation with Sue, Emma knows from experience, is to never respond directly to anything that comes out of Sue’s mouth, and so she says, into the dark room, “I get terrible first day jitters. I always have, ever since the night before I started kindergarten. You know, I remember that my mother took me straight to the teacher that first morning and told her she should encourage the other students to tease me until I developed a thicker skin, because I was too sensitive for my own good.” She gives a little laugh, as if to imply that the story isn’t as bad as it seems. At the time, Emma hadn’t understood the look Mrs. Seward had given her, but she’d felt the shame of it just the same. Looking back, she supposes it was pity.

“When I was nine years old,” Sue says, pushing down the sheets and wriggling a little, “my mother left Jean and me by ourselves for three weeks. She gave us a wad of cash for groceries and told me to take good care of my sister. I had no idea where she was. Jean wouldn’t stop asking me when she was coming back. And then she stopped asking. That was harder.”

Emma swallows, trying to imagine being left all alone. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “That’s a terrible story.”

“Sounds like your childhood wasn’t exactly a picnic either. Not that I’m surprised, seeing as how you’ve got more problems than Jay-Z. She still in your life?”

“My mother? Yes. Well, no, not really. I don’t talk to her. Unless I have to.”

“Things are gonna be different,” Sue declares, turning on her side to face Emma, and Emma, startled, thinks she’s talking about her own mother until she sees Sue’s hand over her belly, rubbing slightly. “I will never, _ever_ do to my child what our mother did to me and to Jean. Susie’s going to get everything we never had. She’s going to know from the second she’s born that she’s wanted and loved more than anything in the world. Don’t you doubt that for a second.”

“I don’t. I won’t. I think it’s really wonderful, what you’re doing. Your daughter will be lucky to have you.” She doesn’t know if she really means that, not on all levels – Emma’s seen Sue Sylvester assault enough minors in the hallways over the years to harbor some severe reservations over her fitness as a parent – but Sue’s vehemence and sincerity are surprisingly moving. “And Shannon and I are here to, um, help, in any way you need, with the baby. You’re not in this by yourself. You have friends.”

The second the word’s out, she feels vulnerable, like she should take it back, but a smile spreads visibly on Sue’s face, a real one that makes Emma want to smile back. She does. 

“Junior’s kicking,” Sue says, suddenly, her palm still pressing into her belly. “Getting a head start on those split jumps.”

Emma, emboldened by their conversation, moves closer, undeniably encroaching on the sixty-three percent of the bed reserved for Sue and the baby. “Can I feel?” she asks, and then adds, immediately, “I mean, if you aren’t comfortable, that’s perfectly –“

“Oh, for god’s sake, Elsa, just give me your freakishly bony hand,” Sue orders, and when Emma meekly holds her hand out in Sue’s direction, Sue grabs it and places it on the swell of her stomach. 

The kick flutters against her fingers, once, then again, harder.

“Oh,” Emma manages, stunned. “ _Oh_. That’s her foot. Oh, my goodness. What does it feel like? Does it hurt?”

Sue shakes her head. “Like pressure,” she says. “It’s strange. But it’s nice, too. Makes me feel less alone.”

They’re silent after that, Emma not knowing how to respond. She doesn’t move away, and neither does Sue, and so they stay like that, together, Emma’s hand resting on Sue’s belly. It isn’t until Emma wakes up several hours later that she realizes they’d actually fallen asleep in that position. Sue’s fingers are still over hers, steady and warm, holding her there, and Emma’s head is nestled on the edge of Sue’s pillow. 

Emma withdraws back to her side of the bed as quietly as she can. Sue doesn’t wake up.

Her heart is racing, and she doesn’t think about why.

___________

Any concerns Emma’s harbored over potential awkwardness between Will’s former students and herself are immediately validated when Rachel Berry, eyes misting with empathetic commiseration, hands her a CD case studded with rhinestones and a coupon for 50% off at the local ice-cream parlor, Coneheads. 

“We heard,” she says, unnecessarily. Kurt, standing next to her, looks about as uncomfortable as Emma feels. “Ms. Pillsbury, I want you to know that I am so very sorry. You and Mr. Schue were a love story for the ages. Like a much, much less glamorous Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.”

“Um,” Emma manages, taking the offered items. “Thank you, Rachel. I think.”

“I know exactly what you’re going through, as someone who has also recently suffered incredible heartbreak. This CD helped me through the worst of my own post-breakup angst. It contains twenty-two timeless songs about lost love.”

“I don’t know why it’s necessary to give her music that’ll make her feel _worse_ ,” Kurt mutters, under his breath. 

“Well, sometimes, Kurt, you just need to hide under the covers and express your deeply felt emotions into the fur of a large teddy bear while listening to Bette Midler’s classic ‘The Rose.’ It’s therapeutic.” 

“Okay,” Emma says, quickly. “All right, that’s great. Again, Rachel, thank you, it was very sweet of you to think of me. I’ll be sure to listen to the CD later.” Something occurs to her. “How did you find out? Did Mr. Schuester, Will, did he tell you?”

Kurt looks at her, face softening a little in what might be sympathy. “Facebook relationship status. He changed it to ‘single’ a few weeks ago. Things seems pretty bad, to be honest. He’s posting a _lot_ of lyrics from _Carousel_.”

Rachel nods, a pinched move of her chin that suggests she agrees this is a dire sign.

Emma doesn’t have a Facebook account herself – she doesn’t exactly feel the need to track down her three friends from college or post pictures of her file cabinets – but Will does. He’d explained to her once that he thought it was important to keep up with the times, speak the kids’ language. “It’s a great way to stay in touch with them after they graduate, too,” he’d said, and the note of eagerness in his voice had made her unexpectedly sad for him. 

“Well,” she says, awkwardly, and claps her hands together. It’s probably better not to comment on this new information. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s organic punch and oatmeal raisin cookies over on the table by the wall, but please don’t forget the napkins. You can have a seat whenever you’d like.” She gestures to the small circle of chairs she’s assembled in the middle of the classroom. “We’re just going to wait for the others to get here, and then we’ll start.”

“Yo, Ms. P,” Noah Puckerman calls from the doorway, and she spins to face him, taking in his appreciative grin and eyebrow-waggle. “It sucks about Mr. Schue and all, but the good news is, now you’re free to ride the Puckcoaster. I’ll even let you cut in line. Don’t worry, I just had my tetanus shot.”

Emma, with a small shudder, is about to politely decline this invitation when Mercedes, emerging from behind Puck, socks him hard in the shoulder. 

“Ouch,” Puck yells, rubbing the sore spot, and Mercedes tells him, “Show some respect, Puckerman. That kind of talk isn’t cute, and it never was. You’re a grown-ass man. Get your mouth under control.” She turns to Emma, softening. “Hey, Ms. Pillsbury. I apologize on Puck’s behalf. And I feel bad about you and Mr. Schue, too. Hope you’re doing all right.”

“Hi, Mercedes,” she says, and gives her a warm, grateful smile. Emma’s always liked Mercedes, even if the girl intimidates her a little bit. She’s just so _confident_. “Please, come on in.”

Quinn Fabray is the last to arrive, opening the door just as Emma’s thinking she might as well get things started.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Quinn announces, smiling apologetically as she joins the circle, sitting between Rachel and Mercedes. “There was traffic on Washington.” She stops, biting her lower lip briefly. “Actually, I don’t know why I said that. It isn’t true. I’m late because I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come. We’ve said goodbye already, when we left Rachel at the train station. This feels a lot like we’re just dragging it out through summer.”

“Our seminar isn’t about saying goodbyes, Quinn. It’s about saying hello to the rest of your life. Together, in a safe space, where you can all be honest with each other about how you’re feeling about your futures.”

“I agree with Ms. Pillsbury,” Rachel chimes in. “In fact, I have a song that would be –“

“No way,” Kurt interrupts. “Absolutely not.”

Quinn crosses one leg over the other, leaning back in her chair. “A safe space,” she says. “Honesty. Okay. So tell us, Ms. P. How exactly are we supposed to do this?”

“It’s informal. I want all of you to be able to ask me whatever questions –“

“No, not that. I mean college. I mean adulthood. The last four years have been all about preparing for our lives after high school, and now they’re here, and we’re just – expected to know what we’re doing. How to choose the right classes, the right major, the right profession, the right partner.”

Hurt shines briefly on Rachel’s face. 

“That’s why we’re here, right? You’re going to tell us how to make choices. So tell us, how are we supposed to get through the next part of our lives without messing everything up?”

Emma opens her mouth, closes it. She hadn’t prepared for this, for Quinn’s direct questioning and strangely defiant uncertainties. Her notes are all about signing up for a credit card and how to cook fish without burning it.

“I came here because I’m scared, too,” Mercedes admits, looking around the circle. She reaches over into Quinn’s lap and takes her hand, squeezing it. “I’m moving to a new city by myself, and I’m trying to break into an industry that doesn’t exactly love people like me. It’s exciting, but I’m terrified I’m going to fail.”

“At least you have a chance to go for it,” Kurt mutters. “At least you have a goal. Somebody wants you.”

“Just because you have a goal doesn’t mean you can’t be scared, Kurt,” Rachel interrupts. “And I’m sure Ms. Pillsbury has excellent advice for all of us. After all, that’s why she’s holding this class.” She turns to Emma expectantly, and the others follow, five pairs of eyes watching her. “Isn’t it?”

“Well,” Emma begins, wanting to choose her words carefully, “being an adult isn’t what you might think it is when you’re younger. You think when you reach a certain age you’ll suddenly know all the answers, but then you get there and you don’t. You end up just making things up as you go along. That’s what adulthood is. Improvising. Pretending you know what you’re doing. And then suddenly you’re in your thirties, and you’re in a relationship you don’t know how to want, and you realize you’ve been pretending for so long that you just can’t seem to do anything else.”

Silence. The others stare at her. Emma’s cheeks burn as she realizes she’s just told them far more than she’d meant to admit.

“Mercedes, Quinn, all of you,” she continues, trying to stay composed. “You have some really big questions. They’re not the kind of questions I know how to answer, because, to be honest, I’m still trying to figure them out for myself.”

“Then what the hell are we doing here?” Puck asks. “You’re the guidance counselor. If you don’t know the answers, how are we supposed to know what to do?”

She’s attempting to come up with a good response that won’t humiliate her further when Mercedes says, “Maybe we can help each other. Not like a class, but like a support group. And Ms. Pillsbury, maybe we can help you. I know you’ve got all this experience, but it might be good for you to talk to us. Hey, we’re adults now too.”

There are a million things she could say to this. That despite the fact they’ve all ticked over into legal adulthood, there’s still a divide the size of the Grand Canyon between eighteen and thirty-three. That her problems aren’t something she should be sharing with former students. That all Emma knows how to do is to stuff their expansive lives into her narrow, comfortable range of knowledge. Until now, it’s been enough for her.

What comes out, instead, is a shaky, “Okay.” She coughs, to mask her nervousness. “All right. Yes. That might be good.”

___________

“Might be _good_?” Sue asks, incredulously, over dinner. “Might be _good_? Elsie, I literally can’t think of a worse idea, and you’re talking to the inventor of the 1x1 Rubik’s Cube.” 

Shannon rests her silverware on her now-empty plate, no vestiges of chicken parmesan or baked potato remaining. “I don’t know about that. It might be a good strategy to get ‘em chatty. Sure as heck works for Will. Those kids really love sharing their feelings with him.”

Nodding her head vigorously at Shannon, Emma turns back to Sue. “Yes, exactly. That’s why I thought it might not be so bad, they’re already used to –“

“No, _William_ loves sharing his feelings,” Sue corrects. “It’s bad enough, Amy Pond, that you’ve remain bizarrely devoted to the misguided theory that talking makes students less sad or repulsive or whatever, but let me break this down for you. Our job, as educators, is to prepare these kids for the real world out there. And despite what Will Schuester deludes himself into believing on a daily basis, our personal lives are not their concern. Have you actually thought about how this will play out? Are you, for example, planning on telling Kurt Hummel that you left his glee club teacher because the mere touch of Will’s hand on your naked body made you physically ill?”

“Come on, Sue,” Shannon says, uncomfortably. 

“Well, are you?”

“I –” Emma can’t hold Sue’s gaze. She lowers her eyes. This isn’t fair. “I wasn’t exactly going to –”

“Blubbering about your considerable list of issues to a bunch of kids who aren’t even old enough to remember the Clinton presidency helps precisely no one. I expected better out of you.”

It’s that last remark that stings Emma, unexpectedly, and she fires back, suddenly angry, “Oh, so I suppose soliciting sperm donations from barely-legal students is appropriate, then?” 

“ _What_?” Shannon says, clearly shocked. “She _what_? Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait just a damn minute –”

It’s like Shannon isn’t even in the room, as far as Sue’s concerned. “ _Excuse_ me?” 

Emma pushes her chair away from the table, her back rod-straight. “Will let me in on that lovely little piece of information. You’re not exactly a paragon of virtue yourself, Sue. If I looked up ‘hypocrite’ in the dictionary, I bet there’d be giant color photographs of you grilling Quinn Fabray for pregnancy tips and sharing intimate heart-to-hearts with Becky Jackson when she’s supposed to be in class.”

Mouth rounding with astonishment, Sue’s jaw drops. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“You heard what I said.” Emma’s enjoying the rush that always comes with standing up to Sue. It happens so infrequently, and Sue looks thoroughly dumbfounded by her comment, still gaping. “Shannon, dinner was lovely as always, thank you. Let me take care of the dishes.”

Sue doesn’t talk to her for the rest of the evening. 

At first, Emma convinces herself she doesn’t care, since she’s still simmering a little with her own resentment at being challenged. She busies herself with a new crochet pattern she’s been eager to try, keeping Shannon company on the couch while Shannon yells encouragement at the contestants on _Iron Chef_. Sue sets up camp in the dining room, various pieces from her advanced security system spread out on the table, and when the doorbell rings, Emma hears her yell, “Come on in, Becky, the door’s open. Did you bring your soldering iron?”

“You bet, Coach,” Becky shouts back, as she walks into the hallway, and then stops. “Hey, Ms. Pillsbury. Hi, Coach Beiste. How’s it hanging?”

Surprised, Emma squeaks out a soft hello. 

“Hey there, Becky,” Shannon says, not breaking her gaze at the TV. It’s plantain night. Shannon’s got a huge thing for plantains. “Can’t complain.”

Becky gives them an enthusiastic thumbs-up and shoulders her massive knapsack, walking into the dining room. “Cool beans,” she calls back, and Emma hears Sue say, “Now, Becky, what did I tell you about using that phrase? It’s incredibly dated, and worse, it’s an affront to the pure, unadulterated joy afforded me by a piping hot burrito.”

“I’m bringing it back, Coach.”

“You have exactly eleven more days. If half of Lima isn’t saying ‘cool beans’ by then, I expect you to let it stay dead, like pogs or Courtney Love. That clear?”

“I guess.” Becky’s disappointment is obvious.

“Good. Now put that down and come sit next to me while I show you how to connect a solenoid coil to a sounder.”

Despite her attempts to focus on the stitches she’s making, and the welcome background noise of Shannon’s commentary – “No, man, no, don’t bake that skin! Fry it! Turn it the other way, it’ll cook faster. This guy doesn’t have a brain, he’s got a teacup full of farts sitting between his ears” – Emma keeps straining to hear what’s going on in the dining room. It isn’t particularly interesting, and there’s a lot of shop talk Emma doesn’t understand (who knew Sue knew so much about wiring?), but she can make out the tone of Sue’s voice, surprisingly gentle as she explains to Becky what they’re doing. 

“She really asked those boys for sperm donations?”

Emma whips her head from the direction of the dining room to look at Shannon. “I’m sorry?”

“Sue. Asked those – you know, forget it, I don’t really want to know. Hey, Ems, I’ve got your back, always. You know that, right? You’re my little pal.”

Shannon’s become one of the first true friends she’s ever had, and Emma still isn’t quite sure how it’s happened. “I know. Of course I do.”

“What you said to Sue, you weren’t wrong. But you hurt her feelings. Maybe that’s more important than who’s right. Interacting with those kids like a normal human being doesn’t come easy to her. You know that.”

“ _Sue’s_ feelings?” She’s incredulous. “I wasn’t the one who – she started it. What about my feelings?” 

Leaning in, Shannon says, “Look, punkin, I know you’ve been going through some stuff lately, so I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ol’ Sue’s facing some pretty big life changes herself. She’s pretty tender right now. Go a little softer on her. Let her talk out of both sides of her mouth if it makes her feel better. No skin off your keister, right?”

In the next room, Becky laughs at something unidentified, a high, delighted giggle. It takes Emma a second to recognize the sound that follows. Sue’s laughing too. Not loudly, and not long, but it’s unmistakable. 

Shannon’s arm snakes around Emma, giving her a friendly squeeze, and Emma, a little self-conscious, rests her head on the other woman’s shoulder, wanting to meet Shannon halfway. Well, she guesses it isn’t asking too much to do the same thing for Sue. After all, Sue’s the reason why she isn’t living with her parents right now. She owes her a little extra kindness.

By the time she’s sliding into bed next to Sue that night, Emma’s beginning to sincerely regret her words. Sue might’ve been hypocritical, but she has a real point. Hadn’t Emma had a hundred conversations with Will where she’d more or less taken Sue’s exact position, while Will defended his talks with Rachel and Finn about his alcoholic mother and unstable father? She’d been overly defensive with Sue; lashed back when prodded in a sore place.

“Sue,” she whispers into the dark. 

“Are you awake?”

“No.” 

“I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it.”

For a long while, there’s no answer, and then, finally, “Deena, that spine of yours is weaker than Christopher Reeve’s, and he’s been decomposing for eight years. If you’re going to openly defy me, you could at least have the decency to mean what you say.”

“All right then,” Emma says, startled into honesty. “I did mean it a little.”

“Well, congratulations. Now stop talking and let me get some sleep.” 

But even though Emma obliges by staying quiet, Sue keeps twisting long afterwards, pulling the blankets and stretching her legs, rearranging her support pillows. Emma, nowhere near sleep, can make out the movement of Sue’s hand pressing into her lower back, and the small sound of air hissing through her mouth as she arches, clearly trying to relieve some pressure or pain.

“Does your back hurt?” she asks, when she can’t keep silent any longer. “I can heat up one of those hot water bottles for you.”

“I can’t –“ Sue sounds a little strangled. “No.”

That’s fine by Emma, who doesn’t particularly want to go hunting in the kitchen at this late hour anyway, and so she turns over just as Sue blurts out something, too fast for intelligibility.

She thinks she must’ve heard it wrong. “What?”

“I _asked_ if you would rub my back.” It comes out short and staccato between clenched teeth. “Please.”

Surprised into willingness, Emma obligingly turns towards Sue, whose middle back is curved inwards, her fingers pressing at the top of her tracksuit pajama bottoms. Emma places her hand over Sue’s, a silent notice that it’s all right to let her take over, and when Sue pulls away, Emma begins to massage the spot slowly. She’s never done anything like this before, she realizes. Not even for Will. He’d asked, once, and she’d hidden in the bathroom until he’d tapped on the door and told her, with a sigh, that it was safe to come out.

Anxiety knocks at her nerves, just slightly, and she pushes it away with effort. _You’re all right, Emma_ , she tells herself. _This is just you helping out a friend. Everything’s fine. Nothing bad is going to happen_.

“Am I doing this right?” she asks, softly, and Sue says, still through her teeth, “Harder.”

She complies, putting more effort into it. 

Sue groans. “Like that. Keep going.”

It’s difficult, sustaining pressure when her arm’s this far extended, and so Emma scoots in a little closer to Sue’s body, resting her head on the near side of Sue’s pillow. “I can’t get –” she says, frustrated, “the fabric’s making it difficult, I have to –” and then slides her hand underneath Sue’s cotton tank-top. 

Sue’s skin is surprisingly warm, firm from tensed muscles, and she arches again at the renewed pressure from Emma’s fingers, working into the hard knots. 

“ _God_ , Emma,” Sue manages. “That’s good.” Her voice sounds alien, erratic and tender with the release of pain. She pushes back against Emma’s hand, working for her relief. 

Emma moves her hand a little higher, pressing on either side of Sue’s spine. The muscles push back, still taut. “Just tell me what you need,” she murmurs, against the back of Sue’s head, stirring her hair a little. She still feels a little guilty, after all, from her comments earlier, and she certainly doesn’t want Sue to be in pain. If she can do something to help her feel better – 

She listens to Sue’s uneven breathing, feels it as she rubs, too, in bigger circles, working Sue up into something like a gasp, and then, abruptly, Sue’s pushing herself into a seated position, sitting up, the pillow between her knees falling to the mattress. 

“What’s wrong?” Emma asks, startled, but Sue doesn’t answer her as she stands, making her way in the dark, moving as quickly as she can away from the bed, her heft making speed impossible. After a moment, Emma hears the bathroom door slam shut. 

Could it be that simple? She knows pregnancy makes nature calls much more frequent, but Sue had pulled away so suddenly. Emma had been doing everything right, hadn’t she? 

It takes Sue nearly twice the usual couple of minutes to make her way back to the bedroom. 

“Do you want me to keep going?” Emma volunteers, when Sue lowers herself back into the bed, grabbing for her support pillows, arranging them between her knees and under her stomach as she lies on her side.

No response. 

Her hand rests on Sue’s shoulder. Immediately, Sue stiffens. “Is everything – ?”

“Take your hand off me and go back to sleep,” Sue says, hoarsely. “Right now.”

Emma removes her hand immediately. “But I don’t –“

“If I have to ask you again, Emma,” Sue interrupts, “I swear, I will get up out of this bed and lick every object in this house that you plan on touching in the next twenty-four hours. This conversation is over.”

It occurs to her, after Emma’s turned over and pulled the blankets up to her chin, that Sue’s been calling her by the wrong name less often. No, that’s not exactly it. She’s been calling her by the wrong name less often in bed.

Sleep dodges her, and she gives up trying to chase it, staring into the corner of the room, acutely aware that on the other side of the bed, Sue’s shifting and rustling, awake too.


	2. Chapter 2

Summer lengthens, heat sinking into Lima, and soon, Emma’s old life of just seven weeks prior seems distant to her. Her new normal is increasingly familiar, even comfortable: Shannon cooking up a storm in the kitchen; Sue following the Olympics with a single-minded intensity Emma can only describe as vaguely alarming; the weekly seminar, surprisingly gratifying after their bumpy start. She’s quiet during their sessions more often than not, but the others make up for it, volunteering their worries and insecurities with commendable ease. 

“I have no idea how to be in a relationship,” Quinn announces, midway through the group’s fourth meeting together. She’s picking at a thick piece of banana raisin bread, sliced from a loaf Emma’s brought from home. Shannon’s doing. “A healthy one, I mean. I spent all of high school dating boys because I thought they would give me what I wanted. Popularity. Status.”

“Well,” Emma suggests, “why not try being single for a while? No one’s saying you have to be in a relationship. College is a great time to try new things.”

Kurt raises his hand, a polite request. “Quinn, if I may? The best relationships come into your life when you’re not expecting them. I never expected to meet someone as amazing as Blaine in high school, but then there he was, publically serenading me with a love song five minutes after we first laid eyes on each other. That’s how I choose to remember our first meeting, anyway. It’s a teensy bit revisionist, but the romantic appeal of it is undeniable.”

“We’re not all as lucky as you and Blaine,” Quinn points out, and Kurt replies, his eyebrows lifting, “Lucky?”

“You know what I mean. Lucky to have someone who’s there for you.”

“Finn and I –“ Rachel begins, only to be met with audible groans from Quinn and Mercedes. She glares at them, indignant. “Ms. Pillsbury, I have just as much of a right as everyone else to talk about my own relationship.”

“Yes, of course you do, Rachel. Go right ahead.”

“So sick of this damn rerun,” Mercedes mutters. 

“As I was about to say, before I was so _rudely_ interrupted, a healthy relationship involves making sacrifices. I’m willing to sacrifice being with Finn so that he can follow his dreams, and he’s willing to do the same for me.”

“You two are _broken up_ , Rachel,” Kurt reminds her. “Remember? You wouldn’t stop crying for three days. I had to put ‘I Got Life’ from _Hair_ on repeat before you’d even let me spoon feed you some chicken noodle soup.”

“As the memorably coiffed television character my dads named me after once said, Finn and I are _on a break_ , Kurt. He’s still the love of my life. That hasn’t changed, and it never will.”

“Relationships are a waste of time,” Puck mutters, slouching in his chair, and takes a large bite of his banana bread slice. “She’ll pin you to the locker room floor and shove her gym shorts in your mouth, and the next day it’s like you don’t even exist. Who needs that shit?” 

“I think the most important thing about a relationship is being able to really talk to the other person,” Mercedes volunteers. “With Sam –“ She’s a little teary, Emma can tell, but she clears her throat, not letting the emotion in her voice get too unwieldy. “We _talk_ , you know? Not just about who won RuPaul’s Drag Race or whether or not they’re going to kill off Gwen Stacy in the next Spider Man movie. He knows secret things about me nobody else does.” She bites her lip. “Not even you guys.”

“Blaine’s always in my corner when I need him,” Kurt says, softly. “Always. And I’m there for him, too. Even when he thinks it’s all right for an orange paisley jacket and a mint green button-up to be within ten feet of each other. Especially then.” He turns to Emma. “Ms. Pillsbury, I’d ask you to share your perspective on this, except that I have a niggling feeling we’d hear a lot more about Mr. Schue’s private life than I, personally, am comfortable with.”

“You don’t have to talk about Mr. Schue,” Quinn promises her. “Unless you want to, of course. And we’d all be just fine with hearing whatever you have to say.” She looks meaningfully across the small circle at Kurt. “Right, guys?”

There’s a chorus of agreement. After a second’s hesitation, Kurt nods. 

Belatedly, Emma realizes that the breakup with Will must be just as awkward for his former students as it is for her. After all, they’d helped him propose. They’d been privy to the ups and downs of their relationship over the years. And she knows they love him, the kind of love you have for someone who floats you a life preserver when you’ve been treading water for years. 

“What you’ve all said, I think that’s true,” she begins, carefully, wanting to tread lightly. “Making sacrifices, being able to really talk with the other person, having support. But relationships, you know, they’re messy. They aren’t something you can wipe down with a cloth and a bottle of cleanser and make spotless. Believe me, I’ve tried. I think it’s important to find someone who makes you feel like that mess isn’t so bad. Who makes you feel like you can handle it. Like you _want_ to.”

“And Mr. Schue couldn’t?” This from Rachel, who, despite her soft tone, looks almost excited by the prospect of receiving this behind-the-scenes information about Will’s life. Kurt, on the other hand, is squinting uncomfortably.

“Mr. Schue,” Emma says, and stops. “Will wasn’t the problem. I don’t really – let’s not talk about me anymore, all right? Quinn, tell us more about what you’re looking forward to at Yale.” 

The distraction works wonderfully. Most people enjoy talking about themselves.

___________

In her entire life, Emma’s shared a bed with two people: Carl and Will. Carl hadn’t been so bad; they’d had a king-sized bed, and when she’d placed a stalwart line of pillows between the two of them, he’d respected that. He’d been very respectful. Will was too, at first, but then he’d pushed her to let him hold her, at the very least, and she’d swallowed her panic because she knew it was the right thing to do. It was what you were supposed to do with the love of your life. When his hands wandered into dangerous territory – accidentally, he insisted – she’d resisted the impulse to scream or bolt from the bed, or both.

She hesitates to include Sue in this list, because, well, it isn’t the same, is it? She’d been married to Carl, and engaged to Will. They’d been her significant others. And Sue’s her friend, even if characterizing their relationship that way still feels a little odd. It makes sense that sharing a bed with Sue doesn’t terrify her, in the way that it had with Carl and Will. There’s no pressure, no expectations for anything more. 

That certainly explains why she hasn’t been panicking over what’s been happening between them. What it doesn’t explain, though, is why it’s been happening in the first place. 

After the still-inexplicable incident with the massage, they’d stayed on either side of their mattress for the next few nights, not talking. Emma’d felt strangely flat, realizing that she’d come to enjoy their conversations in the dark. Look forward to them, even. Talking without face-to-face confrontation had been easier for her, and she’d suspected it’d been easier for Sue, too.

On the fourth night, just as she’d been about to fall asleep, Sue had announced, apropos of nothing, “This fetus of mine could sneak a penalty kick past Hope Solo. Got a leg on her like a battering ram.”

“Oh,” she’d said, startled, and then, realizing the opening Sue was giving her, “Is she –?”

“Yes, Anime Ginny Weasley, my daughter is, once again, attempting to convert my ribs to finely grained powder, one determined foot punch at a time. Good thing I had my skeleton upgraded from bone to unobtainium in 1997.”

There’d been an awkward silence after this statement, until Emma had asked, tentatively, “Would it be all right if I felt – ?“

Before she’d even finished, Sue’s hand had found hers, guiding it towards her belly.

Emma shifted closer, pressing her palm lightly down, the skin below her hand still surprisingly yielding. There hadn’t been a kick, though. She’d missed it, or maybe it wasn’t there in the first place. 

They’d fallen asleep like that for the second time, touching, and after Sue’s usual trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night, she’d reoccupied the middle of the mattress rather than the side. Emma, half awake, hadn’t moved away. 

Two weeks since, and neither of them have talked about it, but each night, Emma finds herself stretching her arms a little earlier, exaggerating her yawns. “I’m exhausted,” she’ll say, or “Wow, that scrapbooking project really tuckered me out, I think I’ll head to bed early,” and instead of unease, something glad sparks in her when Sue, after a respectable hesitation, concedes that she might as well do the same. 

Emma tries to convince herself she isn’t looking forward to the way that Sue reaches for her, night after night, the way it takes Emma five minutes, tops, to fall asleep when she’s spooned against Sue’s back, the way Sue pulls Emma’s hand over her side and onto her belly, keeping it there. She doesn’t think about what it might mean, or that on one of the household movie nights, during a particularly brutal scene in _Predator_ , she’d actually hidden her face against Sue’s shoulder before realizing, belatedly, what she’d done. Shannon, luckily, hadn’t seen, although Emma isn’t quite sure why she’d care if Shannon _had_ , in fact, noticed. It isn’t as though Emma hasn’t done the same thing with Shannon a hundred times. 

And, then, in late July, Shannon abruptly announces during dinner that she’s found a new apartment near her sister Denise. It’s time, she explains to Sue and Emma, to get on with her life. Not that she isn’t grateful. Sue’s given her a home, been there for her just when she’d felt her lowest. “I won’t forget it,” she says, tearfully, wiping her eyes. “Not as long as I live. You ever need anything, pal – emergency protein powder, babysitting, back-up security, anything – just give me a call.”

“Well, truth is, Shannon, I’m gonna miss you,” Sue tells her, and Emma’s mildly surprised at how sincere she sounds. “It’s not just anyone who can do a bang-on impression of William ‘The Refrigerator’ Perry by simply existing.”

Shannon, unfazed by this, gets up from the table and walks over to Sue’s seat. She bends down and hugs her fiercely. After several seconds, Sue, looking mildly unnerved, pats her arm. 

Heart racing, Emma tries not to let what she’s feeling show on her face. With Shannon leaving, she’ll be alone with Sue. Just the two of them, without Shannon to – what? To serve as a buffer? And of course, Emma will have to move into the guest bedroom now. Because that would be the obvious, appropriate thing to do. Sharing Sue’s bed when there’s a free one available, that would be – that would –

And then Shannon’s hugging her too, and when Emma hugs her back, automatically, still muddled by all her conflicting emotions, Shannon murmurs, in her ear, “You gonna be okay here by yourself?”

It’s close enough to what Emma’s been thinking that she flinches. Shannon, apparently, feels it, because she adds, “Any time you need a place to stay, I’m good for it. Day or night, just come on over. No questions asked.”

“Thank you,” Emma whispers back, meaning it, thinking, well, of course she’ll have to move into the guest bedroom. Why wouldn’t she? There’s no good reason in the world to stay where she is.

She doesn’t move into the guest bedroom. 

Without Shannon around, the tension between Emma and Sue feels more palpable to Emma, growing stronger as the days pass and Sue still fails to bring up the unoccupied bed just down the hallway. Emma’s increasingly nervous, jumpy at the slightest sound. She prattles on to Sue about everything she can think to mention that feels safe. Kurt’s moodiness during their meetings, his antagonism directed largely towards Rachel. How Emma might have to find a new printer for her pamphlets, now that Steve Greene’s told her the economy’s dragging his business under. That McCall’s dress pattern she’s finally been able to track down, and oh, by the way, if Sue wouldn’t mind, Emma would be more than happy to make some adorable outfits for the baby.

No, Sue doesn’t mind, as long as she gets veto power over ruffles. To Emma’s surprise, Sue doesn’t seem to dislike her nervous chatter. She listens, for the most part, screwing together pieces of her nearly complete alarm system, taking a particular interest in what Emma has to say about Kurt. “He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll be assigning him the role of fairy godfather once Junior’s born,” she informs Emma one afternoon. 

"Godfather?" She's confused. "I thought you hated anything religious."

“My repugnance for organized religion,” Sue declares, “is surpassed only by the pleasure I take in imagining Porcelain wearing a sweeping Carolina Herrera cloak and carrying a luminous, sequined wand.” She winks at Emma, in a way that implies Emma’s supposed to appreciate the mental picture as much as Sue clearly does.

“I, uh, hope that works out for you,” Emma stammers, and then casts around for another topic before this one continues down an increasingly bizarre path.

When they’re in bed, that’s when Emma gives herself permission to stop talking. 

Sometimes, now, her hand comes to rest on the curve of Sue’s hip instead of her belly. Once, Sue reaches back behind her, finding Emma’s own hip, and strokes it, lightly, through her nightgown, down the length of her thigh. Not much, just a few times, but Emma stays very still and tries not to let herself admit that she’s, well, she’s beginning to _respond_ to Sue’s touch. Very much so. 

What in heaven’s name is going on with her? What is she doing? Emma isn’t like _that_. She would never – she’s not that kind of person, not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, it’s absolutely fine and great and Emma even has a little rainbow ally flag in her office that she bought after Kurt Hummel came out almost three years ago. But no, she’s never, ever, ever thought that way about any woman before, and especially not Sue Sylvester, of all people.

But the night Sue rubs her thigh, after she’s fallen asleep, Emma reaches with a tentative hand under her own nightgown and lets her fingers trace between her legs. One slips beneath her underwear, teasing open what’s inside. She holds her breath.

___________

What she’s feeling, that’s just momentary insanity brought on by loneliness and their week-long _Game of Thrones_ marathon. It has to be. No other reason for it.

When the doorbell rings on a Saturday morning in early August, Emma’s in the middle of a crossword puzzle, having successfully managed to forget about her exceptionally confusing life for an entire half-hour. She’s so caught up in trying to figure out 58 Across, “Jazzes up elves’ inn,” that it takes her a second to register who’s on the other side of the door after she opens it. 

“Freaky-deaky,” her mother says, brightly. Her clothes, as usual, are perfectly tailored, her hair in a tidy bun at the base of her neck. She’s clutching her purse in both hands. “Well, here you are! Your father and I haven’t heard from you in two months. Who knows, you might’ve decided to lock yourself in a room with urine jars like Howard Hughes. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“How did you find me?” she asks, when she’s recovered enough from the shock to formulate a coherent thought. 

“We called Will, of course. You know, he’s been worried sick about you ever since you left him. I told him that this was just par for the course, that you never could make up your mind about any boy you dated. Remember Teddy? He was head-over-heels for you, and then you just stopped talking to him.”

“That was seventh grade.” She could murder Will. She could actually kill him for doing this to her. He _knows_ how horrible they are. 

“So this is where my little crazy-cakes is living.” Her mother peers into the house behind her. “I didn’t think you could do it, sweetheart, but I have to say, it looks like you’re shacking up with someone who’s even more off her rocker than you are.” She squints. “Look at all those trophies. Oh, my, my, my.”

Behind her, Emma hears footsteps. 

“Mom,” she says, trying to keep her alarm down. The last thing she wants is for Sue to meet her mother. “I’d like to ask you to leave now. I’ll visit you and Daddy soon, all right? Please don’t worry about me. I’m all right here.”

But Rose is looking behind Emma now, to where Sue’s apparently standing. Emma can’t see Sue, of course, but she can imagine what her mother’s taking in: a tall, intimidating middle-aged woman, absurdly pregnant, wearing a specially tailored maternity tracksuit jacket and pants. Rose stares openly at Sue, her mouth stretching into a disbelieving smirk. Emma, sick with dread, knows that expression. It’s the exact same one she’d fought to keep off her face when she’d found out Sue was going to have a baby. 

“Well, who’s this?” her mother asks, all polite incredulity.

“Introductions,” Sue growls, “are for alcoholics and English majors. If you don’t already know who I am, lady, then you sure don’t deserve to find out.” She puts a hand on Emma’s upper arm, and Emma starts, nearly wrenching her arm away in an attempt to get Sue to stop touching her. If her mother notices anything –

“Oh, I know!” Rose breaks in. “I remember you. You’re that cheerleading coach at my little freaky-deaky’s school, the one who ran for Congress last year. Of course, I usually sit out any local election that doesn’t have a ginger candidate, but that time I held my nose and voted for you. Burt Hummel’s just too suspicious, with that bald head of his. It’s impossible to tell what swarthy genes might lie beneath that chrome dome.”

“Please go, Mom. Please.” 

“All right, I’m going. You know, Sue, I feel just terrible that you have to put up with my little crazy’s yucky habits. Bet she’s polishing up a storm around here, isn’t she? At least Will was engaged to her, but you aren’t even getting anything out of it. And here you are, in your condition!” She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Can I just ask how old you are? It’s really incredible what modern science can do nowadays.”

Sue starts to say something, but Emma interrupts. “I want you to leave,” she snaps, and this time the anger gets across to her mother, who looks startled. “It’s one thing for you to – to say mean things to me and make me feel terrible, but you don’t get to come to my friend’s house and bully her too. You’re _mean_. You make me feel worse about myself every time I talk to you, and that’s incredibly difficult to do, because my self-esteem, to be quite honest, is in the basement. I don’t deserve to feel like this about myself. I’ve been working _so hard_ to get better, I’ve been taking medication and seeing a psychiatrist, and you don’t care about any of that. All you ever do is make fun of me and apologize to other people for my problems.”

“Sweetheart –!” 

“Don’t come back here again,” she tells Rose, and slams the door in her face. For a second, Emma’s too shocked by her own outburst to know what to do next, and then she laughs, a hollow, incredulous laugh that shakes her entire frame. Where in the world had she found the courage to do _that_?

“Well, Lady Bird Yawn-son, I have to admit, that was impressive, even by my own high standards. Didn’t know you had it in you. I am distended not only with child, but with pride.” 

Emma turns around, still shaking, and rushes past Sue, not trusting herself to speak or look in her direction. 

Her hand washing ritual that afternoon takes fifteen minutes, instead of the usual four, and she spends two hours aligning Sue’s trophies in their cases, adjusting them so that they’re equally one-and-a-half inches apart in all directions. When she’s done, she can breathe a little more easily. 

She washes her hands a second time afterwards, and a third time, and then a fourth and fifth time before bed, because what if the first scrubbing didn’t matter? And the second? And the third and fourth?

It takes her an hour to fall asleep, counting to six again and again in her head, and when she finally does, she wakes up rigid with terror not long after, making small strangled sounds. 

“Emma,” Sue’s saying, in her ear. “It’s all right. You’re dreaming.”

“Oh,” she gasps, finally relaxing out of her paralysis, coming back into the room, and she turns into Sue reflexively, needing reassurance. “It didn’t really happen.” Something about her mother, and being a child again, and being locked in her office at McKinley. She can’t remember.

“Just calm down –”

But she’s holding onto Sue like the bed’s an ocean and Sue’s her lifejacket, fingers pressing first into her ribcage and then under her, around her back, burying her face into her shoulder. Sue’s arms encircle her slowly. The horror of Emma’s dream is still in her eyes and her ears and her mouth, even though she can’t remember it. 

“Oh, no, please,” she whimpers, not listening to herself, but she hears Sue, strong and insistent, telling her to get ahold of herself, everything’s fine, she’s safe.

Sue Sylvester doesn’t lie, not unless it benefits her in some way or she’s bored. Some deep part of Emma recognizes this, and decides this scenario is exempt from either of those exceptions. She relaxes, limp, for the first time since the previous morning. It isn’t until the rank, dark tide of the nightmare’s receded fully and Emma’s awareness takes hold of her again that she realizes she’s snuggled up flush against Sue’s body, clasped tight in her arms like a child.

Well, maybe not exactly like a child.

Every inch of her is slowly waking up to join her brain, flesh prickling with loud, unfamiliar awareness at each place it’s touching Sue, at leg and stomach and breast. She can feel Sue underneath and next to her, warm and soft, the familiar swell of her belly pushing into Emma’s ribcage, and Emma shuts her eyes tightly as Sue’s hand moves up higher, rubbing the back of Emma’s neck in a gesture that might be comfort. Her fingers push into the muscle firmly, in small circles.

Sue’s holding her breath. Emma can feel it, how still she is.

“That’s very nice,” she whispers, meaning the massage. Her face is pressed against Sue’s collarbone, and when she speaks her mouth moves on Sue’s skin. 

Sue’s hand freezes.

“Please,” Emma says again, shifting slowly on top of Sue, and Sue lets out a short, sharp exhalation against Emma’s scalp. “Don’t stop.” 

Her voice is charged now in a way it hadn’t been before, electric with possibility and meaning. If Emma lifts her head and moves up just slightly, just a few inches – and then Sue’s fingers are threading up through Emma’s hair, cradling the back of her head, pulling her in for a kiss so tentative it could easily be retracted at any second.

Kissing Sue is nothing like kissing Will, or Carl, or her college boyfriend with the droopy eye. It’s softer, for one thing, because Sue doesn’t have a five-o-clock shadow, and it’s slower, Sue pressing her lips gently against one corner of Emma’s mouth, the shock of her tongue teasing at Emma’s sensitive skin, and oh, it’s _better_ , it’s like her whole body’s been called out of sleep, alive now, humming for the first time. 

It’s the feeling Cindy Traynor always talked about at junior high slumber parties, the _you know_ , the thing the other girls giggled over while Emma sat up in her sleeping bag with a small, uncomprehending smile. It’s the language she’s never understood, the language she’d given up on learning, but here in this dark room, in her fourth decade, she’s kissing the most improbable person in the world and it feels like a translation. 

She isn’t even worrying about all the germs in saliva. Well, not much. Not more than the bare minimum a person should probably be thinking about that sort of thing. Her hands find either side of Sue’s head, and she forces history out of her mind. Instead, she kisses her harder, taking Sue’s lower lip between her own, sucking gently. 

Surprising both of them, Sue gasps against her mouth. Just hearing the obvious need in that inhalation puts light pressure between Emma’s legs, like the sound is tied up somehow with whatever’s down there asking to be touched. She fidgets, needing something she can’t identify or ask for, not sure if she would if she knew the words. By the time Sue pulls back again, they’re both breathing hard. 

“You,” Sue says, quietly. “You really want this?” She sounds incredulous, so much so that Emma knows instantly whatever she’s been feeling for the past few weeks, Sue’s felt it too. Maybe for longer. She can’t bring herself to acknowledge it out loud. She nods, close enough to Sue’s face that she knows it’s visible in the dark, and kisses her neck. That’s the truest answer she can give.

Moving is clearly difficult for Sue, and honestly Emma likes the idea of being above her far more than she’d ever liked being below Will. This way, she gets to set the pace, control what they’re doing, stop whenever she likes without having to say the word _no_. Not that she wants to stop. Her hand slowly travels the sloping geography of Sue’s body, the curve of thigh and hip and waist, coming to rest, tentatively, on her full breast. Sue makes another involuntary noise.

When she shifts again, Emma straddles Sue’s right thigh, half-kneeling on either side as she drags up over her, deliberately slow, breasts brushing over the top of Sue’s belly. There’s actual heat just above her knee where she’s nestled between Sue’s legs. She hadn’t meant to press _there_ , she never would’ve had the courage if it hadn’t been an accident, but just as she’s about to withdraw Sue arches a little, pushing down against Emma. Groaning, Sue holds still, and then with a small, “I can’t, I can’t wait –” she starts to move again, rubbing into Emma, seizing with soft sounds. Warmth pulses against Emma’s leg. 

“Did you just –?” Emma asks, suddenly comprehending, and gestures in a way that’s supposed to finish her sentence. She’s never experienced one herself, but she’s watched R-rated movies before, she’s not completely naïve. 

After a second, Sue nods, her chest rising and falling with exertion. “It’s not my fault,” she says, defensively. “Pregnancy hormones. They’ve got me more riled up than Richard Gere during an _Animal Planet_ marathon.” 

This analogy works like a bucket of cold water on Emma, who pushes herself back up and off of Sue, straightening her nightgown. “Wow. That’s, uh, something.”

“It sure was,” Sue tells her, and when she closes her eyes, smiling in what looks strangely like contentment, Emma figures out they’re not talking about the same thing.

___________

In the morning, she rolls over to find Sue watching her, already awake.

“Hi,” she says, the word thick with sleep. 

“Well, hi yourself,” Sue replies, and that smile’s back on her face, crinkling the corners of her mouth and eyes. 

Shortly after that, it happens again, despite the fact that Emma hasn’t brushed her teeth or performed her morning self-scouring ritual yet. This time Sue’s hands are bolder, one cupping right where Emma’s slick and aching, the tops of her thighs sticky with the proof of her arousal. She’s a little embarrassed, because this means Sue _knows_ , but no comment comes, nothing but the sensation of Sue’s finger moving into the wet heat that’s the focus of Emma’s entire awareness. Emma bucks forward, rocking on Sue’s hand, trying to get the pressure she needs.

“I want it,” she says, “I want more, give me more,” and then swears, the profanity foreign on her tongue but good, just like what she’s feeling below. Sue whimpers when she hears it, her other hand reaching around between her own legs.

Emma doesn’t come, not then, but it’s not what she was after, and Sue’s fingers inside her are more than enough, stretching her, making her feel full. The light in the room makes it impossible to hide. 

After their seminar meeting the following Wednesday, she asks Kurt to stay behind for just a few minutes on his own. He agrees, and even when she reassures him he’s done nothing wrong there’s still apprehension on his face. 

“I’ve always thought,” she begins, when everyone else is safely out of the room, “that you were very brave, Kurt. Very, very, very brave. I admire you. We all do.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Ms. Pillsbury, but you didn’t ask me to stick around just to tell me that.”

She rubs her hands together, once, twice, three times, and then presses them together to stop herself. “No. No, I didn’t. I’m just wondering, and, you know, this is a question I’m asking because I think it would be really helpful for me to know about this for other students in the future with your, um, orientation. As a counselor. So. Say you’ve never been attracted to anyone, ever, in your entire life, even though you’ve tried really hard for years, you’ve even looked up a lot of photos of Tom Hardy with his shirt off, and then someone comes along and you’re, uh, very much attracted to that person, like, the _wow_ kind of attracted. Fourth of July fireworks. Except that person is another wo – someone in your gender.”

“I see,” Kurt says, carefully. “And you want me to tell you what to say to this hypothetical student.”

“Yes.” She knows her face must match her hair. 

Instead, he takes her hand, and the gesture is so surprising she forgets to be startled by it. “I’d say congratulations, hypothetical student,” he tells her. “I’d say you deserve to be happy. I’d say don’t let how scared you must be take away from the fact that you’ve finally found someone you want to be with. Enjoy it.”

He knows. He must know. How does he know? She’d been so careful to make it sound like a professional situation. Emma nods, not trusting herself to say anything out loud. 

“Is it Coach Beiste?” he whispers, looking at the door to make sure they’re still alone. “I know the two of you are friends.” 

She shakes her head, glad to be telling the truth, except Kurt doesn’t look as though he believes her. For once, she’s grateful that Sue’s reputation and history are bad enough to prevent even Kurt Hummel, one of her favorites, from landing on her name. “No. Not Shannon. You don’t know this person.” Somehow, this doesn’t feel like a lie. The Sue Kurt’s familiar with isn’t exactly the same Sue Emma’s been discovering. “Kurt, I’d like you to keep this to yourself, please. Don’t tell Blaine, or Rachel, or Finn, or anyone else. It’s not – I don’t know what it is yet. No one can know about it. Especially not Will.” 

“I’m honored,” he tells her, and squeezes her hand before letting go. “Your secret is safe with me. I have to say, though, Coach Beiste is a very lucky woman. If you two ever need any advice on making your relationship public, let me know. I have some very tasteful notecards I think you’d appreciate.”

Emma doesn’t relay any of this conversation to Sue, partly because she isn’t sure if she wants Sue to know about it, and partly because, when she gets home, Sue’s waiting for her with news that absolutely, positively, cannot be put on hold. 

“C-section,” Sue barks, backing her way down into the couch with a hand braced on the lip for balance. Emma watches, patiently waiting for more information. “They told me at the hospital today I had to schedule a caesarean. Something about my age possibly ‘endangering’ the baby if I gave birth the way I want to do it, the natural way. You know who has c-sections, Polly Pocket? Cowards. Quitters. Susan B. Anthony had a c-section, right after she failed to overthrow the government of the United States with several homemade pipe bombs. It isn’t real childbirth unless you’re expelling the equivalent of a small ham through your girded loins and hollering socially permissible death threats.”

“If it’s what’s best for the baby, then I think it might not be the worst thing in the world,” Emma ventures, trying not to say anything that would upset her further. She knows Sue’s particularly sensitive to any suggestions that she might not be at the optimal age for giving birth. “It’d be less messy. I think I’d actually prefer it.”

“Of course _you’d_ prefer a c-section. I, on the other hand, am in possession of a pelvic floor rendered impressively toned and beach-ready through months of imperceptible yet vigorous exercises, and I would like to use it.”

Normally, this would be another one of Sue’s ridiculous, attention-grabbing statements, but Emma, as of just last night, has become personally and intimately acquainted with the specific body part in question. She blushes, looking down. Sue, ever vigilant, notices. 

“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities, Arlene? Not all of us, unfortunately, are evolutionally suited to hatching our young.” She waits several beats for a reaction. “And by that, I mean you’re –”

“A bird, yes, Sue. Thank you. I was following along. My point was, I think the c-section is a good idea. And at least that way, there won’t be any surprises as to when the baby’s coming. Did you set a delivery date?”

“September first. The date a slender, hirsute Australian with an astonishing talent for falsetto first made his way into a world that failed to properly appreciate the raw pulp of his genius. My daughter will share her birthday with one Barry Alan Crompton Gibb, otherwise known as the only surviving member of the Bee Gees.”

“That’s less than a month away.” 

“I’m aware of that.”

“But there’s so much to do before then!” Emma gasps. “We’ve got to paint the baby’s room, and I haven’t finished those red-and-white onesies, either, and your alarm system isn’t installed. We don’t even have a crib!” She stops, because Sue is eyeing her in a way that seems to suggest Emma’s been unintentionally revealing again, and then she hears what she’s said. _We_. Oh, dear.

“I’m gonna stop you and your inclusive language right there,” Sue says, just as Emma’s opening her mouth, mortified. “ _We_ are not welcoming the exceptional new life I’ve created into this world. _I_ am. And I plan on being accompanied during that special moment only by the wailing guitar riffs of the _Top Gun_ soundtrack in stereo surround sound. So you can get any thoughts of holding my hand or rending your garments or whatever it is you think you’d do in my hospital room out of your head toot sweet.”

“Oh,” is all Emma can reply. She’d decided, already, that while Sue was having the baby, Emma would be setting up a little makeshift camp in the waiting room, complete with hand sanitizer, facemask, pillow, blanket, and magazines. She isn’t sure she could physically stand watching a live birth, but staying in the next room, that’s something she’s more than happy to do. Especially now that – well. That they’re – 

“Nothing personal, Pippi Longstocking,” Sue continues, softening a little. “I work better on solo missions.”

Carefully, Emma sits next to Sue on the couch. “Sometimes it’s nice to have another person around,” she offers, and steals a glance in the other woman’s direction. Sue’s hands are folded protectively over her belly. She’s staring straight ahead. “After all, you didn’t think about baby-proofing the house until I brought it up, and now all of your trophies have little rubber caps on the sharp parts.” She leans against Sue, not putting all her weight into the gesture, just enough so that Sue feels her there. “And I think there are some other agreeable things about not being alone.” 

It’s the first time outside the bedroom either of them have acknowledged what’s changed between them. Emma waits, knowing she needs to give Sue time, and finally, Sue quietly says, “I like men. I’ve always liked men. I like them large, muscular, silent, and pliable. I have never before, in my entire _life_ , been attracted to someone who looks as if a good sneeze would catapult her backwards so fast she’d break Usain Bolt’s record in reverse.”

“I like men, too,” Emma tells her, and immediately feels as though she’s told a lie, even though it’s more complicated than that. Like she told Kurt, she hasn’t felt like this about anyone before, male or female. Sure, she’d been fluttery around Will, felt her stomach fill with butterflies when he stood close to her, even enjoyed the way he’d kissed her, a little. Whatever she has with Sue, though, it’s different and overwhelming. “Really, Sue, it’s not like I ever expected this would happen. It wasn’t exactly my childhood dream to – to have a fling with a middle-aged pregnant cheerleading coach who, you know, if we’re being frank here, has a tenuous grasp on reality, is incredibly unpredictable, and can’t seem to go more than three hours without making a threat against someone else’s well-being.”

“I happen to be _twenty-eight_.”

“Okay, again, that isn’t my point. I’m just as surprised by all this as you are. So – I won’t go with you to Susie’s birth, if you don’t want me there. But I don’t think it would be the worst thing in the world if I helped you get ready for her. You can’t do everything on your own. Believe me, I’ve tried.” 

“And what happens once Junior’s born?” Sue asks. For once, the dry note of reserve and sarcasm is gone. There’s only genuine curiosity and a little trepidation. “Still planning on sticking around here? Changing diapers? Failing miserably at peekaboo because those avian appendages can’t adequately cover your enormous eyes? Sharing my bed while helping me care for a disabled infant? I bet that isn’t part of your childhood dream either.”

“I don’t know,” she says, taken aback. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Well, you better start thinking fast,” Sue informs her. “And when you realize that this –“ She gestures between them. “ – is nothing more to you than a rebound from your ill-advised connection with Musical Muppet Paul Ryan, I’ll calmly head off your embarrassing, high-pitched apologies by restating, once again, my ruthless commitment to singledom. Don’t look so surprised, Little Mermaid. You and I both know this only has one ending, and it isn’t the kind William’s kids like to sing about.”

Nevertheless, that night in bed Sue’s hand cups her shoulder, a silent request. Emma, more than willing, finds her in the dark. Together they’re all touch and no sound, only the rustle of the covers and Sue’s barely audible breaths, wordless.

___________

Soon after she’s unpacked and settled, Shannon has Emma and Sue over to her new apartment for one of her multiple-course meals, an impressive, hearty spread that’s apparently benefited from an extra ten days or so of Food Network marathons. The apartment’s what real estate agents euphemistically call “cozy,” only one bedroom and a small one at that, but Shannon, clearly proud, makes a big deal out of giving them a tour anyway.

Emma is careful not to look too much at Sue during dinner, or talk to her, either, just in case Shannon detects that something’s changed. It doesn’t work the way she’d planned, though, because in between the main course and dessert Shannon signals to Emma, with remarkably little subtlety, that she’d like to speak with her in private. Somehow, Emma manages not to immediately shoot a worried glance in Sue’s direction.

Once they’re safely in the tiny breakfast nook adjacent to the dining room, Shannon leans in, clearly concerned. “You’ve been jumpier than a sneeze on a griddle. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing. Nothing at all. I do that, sometimes. I jump. I’ve got a jumping disorder. It’s genetic.” 

“I might believe that, except Sue’s just about as jittery as you are.”

“It’s contagious.” What will it take for Shannon to leave her alone?

“You two all right by yourselves? Look, I gotta tell you, Ems, I felt bad, leaving you to handle her by your lonesome. I know Sue makes you uncomfortable sometimes, but deep down –”

“I wish you’d stop trying to protect me,” Emma exclaims, louder than she’d meant. Surprise flickers on Shannon’s face. “Sue doesn’t need to be explained or ‘handled,’ all right? I am perfectly able to – to stand up to her, and be her friend, Shannon, and I can do all that without breaking. I can be there for her. I _want_ to be. You know, Will always treated me like I was some fragile figurine, but I’m stronger than that.” She takes a breath, and reminds herself that Shannon is not her mother. “Sorry. I shouldn’t – I didn’t mean to get angry.”

Shannon squeezes Emma’s upper arm, and gives her a smile that means forgiveness. “For the record,” she says, “I’ve always known you were plenty strong. That doesn’t mean I figured you knew it too.”

At the table, while Shannon’s busy fumbling around in the kitchen with the coffee maker, Sue, sitting next to Emma, reaches over and places her palm on Emma’s thigh. It isn’t much, just a light touch, but Emma can’t remember Sue ever reaching out to her quite like that during the daytime.

“What is it?” Emma whispers, and Sue says, under her breath, “You might not be all that fragile, Edda, but I still can’t shake the feeling there’s a Blythe doll lurking somewhere in your recent genetic history.” 

She squeezes Emma’s thigh, two quick compressions of her hand. It feels a little to Emma like _thank you_.


	3. Chapter 3

The fourth Wednesday in August is the final meeting of her discussion group, and Emma’s planned a celebration for them to mark the occasion, buying several bags worth of tasteful decorations. She’s particularly proud of the custom-designed banner that reads HOORAY! YOU’RE SLIGHTLY MORE PREPARED FOR THE NEXT SIXTY YEARS! No confetti, though. Confetti is the devil’s frill. It gets everywhere. Streamers are much easier to clean up.

Sue announces that she might as well tag along to campus with Emma, since she’s got some paperwork on her desk she’s been meaning to collect before the baby’s born, and fitting behind a steering wheel isn’t exactly easy for her at this point. 

“You’re welcome to join us,” Emma suggests, while they’re in the car. “I think the kids might benefit from your perspective, especially if you tone down the hostility just a _teensy_ bit. You can still be a little hostile. I know that’s important to you.”

Sue grunts in a way that’s faintly appreciative. 

“We’ll see,” she says. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to give Porcelain and Q another hot piping spoonful of reality bisque. Don’t count on it, though. If my daughter’s anything like me, and that isn’t even a question, she’ll be so irritated by Rachel Berry’s speaking voice that she’ll induce labor in an attempt to escape.” 

This, of course, means yes. 

They arrive at McKinley more than an hour early, and so Emma has time to accompany Sue to her office, enjoying the abandoned hallways, the loud echo of their footsteps on the floor, the absence of screams or jostling. She isn’t sure what it says about her that she likes being at school better when the students aren’t there.

Once in Sue’s office, she clasps her hands in front of her skirt and keeps herself busy by reading the flyers tacked to the bulletin boards while Sue sits heavily in her desk chair, combing through the papers on her desk. One of the pinned items catches her eye, and she untacks it, taking it down. FLEXINESS IS SEXINESS! it reads. She’d had it made up last year after McKinley had ranked eleventh in the nation among high schools with the greatest percentage of stiff-limbed students. It’s meant to encourage exercise.

“This is my pamphlet,” she says, astonished. “You have one of my pamphlets?” 

Sue looks up from her desk. “Oh. That. Well, despite your unforgivable mangling of the Queen’s English, that little leaflet actually has some less than terrible advice in it. You did your research.”

“I always do my research.” Emma puts the pamphlet back on the bulletin board, unreasonably pleased. Sue’s never complimented her professional skills before. “And I’m proud of that title. ‘Flexiness’ may not be an actual word, but it gets my point across. Did you know that McKinley’s now only the twenty-third least flexible high school in the country?"

“I know everything, Ermengarde.”

Of course. How could Emma forget?

She glances out Sue’s window facing the hallway, and then back at Sue, sitting behind her desk. There’s a memory tickling at her consciousness, an encounter she’d had with Will more than a year ago in an empty classroom during that ill-advised Rocky Horror show. Emma hadn’t been sure what she’d enjoyed so much, the song she’d sung with him, or the heady feeling that came with casting propriety to the wind. (The niggling fact that she was dating Carl at the time isn’t something she likes to remember.) It had been unimaginably arousing, the only time in her life, before Sue, that she’d forgotten to be terrified about feeling good.

An idea occurs to her. She looks at her watch. A little under an hour until the others arrive. 

“Speaking of flexiness – uh, flexibility,” Emma blurts out, before she loses her nerve, “I’ve always thought it would be very exciting to have a little illicit encounter at school. It’s very taboo, isn’t it? The thrill of getting caught.” She doesn’t add that she’d never suggest this if school were actually in session. The hallways are deserted now, completely safe. 

“You’ve always thought this,” Sue says, dryly, tapping the stack of papers in her hands on the surface of her desk. “Really.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it before.” She doesn’t feel like elaborating that ‘before’ actually means ‘five minutes prior to bringing it up.’ “Could I interest you in one?”

“An illicit encounter.”

“Yes. Stop poking fun at me, Sue. I’m being serious. You know what I mean. A casual romp. Shocking the monkey. I think that’s the hip expression these days, what the kids are calling it. My seminar isn’t for another hour, and it’s not going to take me very long to set up the classroom.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, Bye Bye Birdie, I’m roughly the size of Kanye West’s ego. From my extensive experience, the kind of dalliance you’re suggesting requires movement, not to mention _flexiness_ , and that isn’t easily happening on my end.”

“You can just sit right there and get comfortable,” Emma informs her. “I’m perfectly capable of doing all the hard work.” She walks over to Sue’s desk, attempting to swing her hips in a gesture she thinks might be seductive, aware that Sue is watching her closely. When she perches on the edge, facing Sue, she lets her legs part, just slightly. Her A-line skirt rides up an inch or two above her knee. “Unless your eyes can’t move either.”

“My eyes,” Sue says, slowly, “are exceptional. Proceed.” She tents her fingers, pressing them to her mouth, and leans back in her chair.

It’s far different contemplating this sitting on a desk than in the safe familiarity of Sue’s bedroom. Emma closes her eyes. She could do anything. Anything at all. She’s running off a cliff into blind territory. The idea is terrifying, but there’s stimulation in it too.

She raises one hand to her left breast, running it lightly over the ruffled fabric of her blouse, cupping the curve of it, and then finds the buttons with her fingers, undoing them one at a time. Emma wonders what bra she’s wearing. Is it the lace lavender one, with the rosettes on the straps? She thinks it might be. Which is nice, since that’s her favorite. Lavender looks good against her skin.

Apparently Sue thinks so, too, because when Emma opens her blouse, she hears an intake of breath, followed by a telling silence. 

“What do you want me to do?” she whispers, teasing up a nipple through the lace with her left hand. It stiffens without hesitation, and between her legs there’s another answer, a pleasant, dull throb. 

“I want –” Sue clears her throat. “Touch yourself. I want to watch you.”

Masturbation has never been something Emma’s made a priority in her life, although she has, on several occasions, spent several minutes rubbing various erogenous zones on her body, more out of a sense of obligation than anything else. It usually leaves her slightly anxious and a little bored, wondering why she seems to be the only one in the world who doesn’t get much pleasure out of it. Goodness knows Will had been an avowed devotee. 

Now, though, sitting on Sue’s desk, hearing the need in Sue’s voice, the idea is suddenly appealing. 

“All right,” she says, and lets her hands find her thighs, traveling over her hips, moving slowly up her stomach to find her breasts again. She strokes them gently, circling her raised nipples, once, twice, three times. Emma’s skin feels deliciously sensitive, responsive even to the light touch of her fingers. Her legs inch just a little further apart, not enough to allow Sue any real glimpse at what’s between, just enough to tease. 

When she begins to undo the clasp of her skirt, Sue says, sharply, “No. Leave it on.”

“I thought you –“ 

“Keep going. Leave it on.”

Puzzled, she opens her eyes. Sue is staring at her, cheeks and forehead flushed with color. Her knees are pressed together firmly, and she’s sitting up straight in her chair. She looks dazed with undisguised arousal. Just the sight makes Emma ache.

“I’ve never – I don’t know how to do this,” she says, suddenly nervous. 

“You’re doing just fine, Emma. Pull up your skirt for me.”

It isn’t a plea, not really, but it’s close, and Emma, balancing on the tips of her toes, slides her skirt up further until it’s bunched around her hips. She’s decidedly exposed now, the thin lavender lace of her underwear the only thing between Sue’s eyes and Emma’s body until Emma’s hand intercedes, pressing firmly on the small, rounded mound between her legs. With a small sound, she tilts her head back, nearly losing her balance on the desk.

“I think I’m already aroused,” she marvels, the novelty of it still wonderful even after three weeks. Sue says her name like she wants nothing more than to find out if it’s true, and so Emma slips two fingers beneath the elastic border, teasing inside her lips. Oh. Yes. Yes, she’s aroused. Very much so. The tip of her index finger slides against the swollen, slippery nub of her clitoris, sending a jolt through her. She gasps. 

Sue, sounding strained, tells her to lean back on the desk, and Emma obeys, sliding down her underwear as she does so, kicking them off into some unknown corner. When her fingers find her clitoris again, her back’s pressing into the hard surface of Sue’s desk, her feet lifting off the ground, knees spread wide. She’s never been this open or exposed to anyone in her entire life, and it might just excite her a little more than it scares her.

“Emma, _fuck_ ,” she hears Sue groan. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now –”

“I’m so wet,” she whimpers, not paying attention. “I think I could –” Something’s building in her, like all her nerves are condensing under her fingers, arriving together, swelling. She presses her hand down harder, raising her hips. Wanting it. “I’m think I’m going to –”

Sue says something, but it’s lost in the rising force of Emma’s body, orgasm bursting through her like a glad flare. Her back arches off the table as she comes for the first time, fingers working her through it, crying out, triumphant.

Her head falls back down on the table with a slightly painful smack as she relaxes, turning to the side. When she opens her eyes, slowly, not wanting to leave the moment, the first thing she sees are the astonished faces of Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry, staring at her through the half-open blinds on Sue’s hallway window.

Emma screams, scrambling up to a seated position, clutching at her open blouse as she attempts to get off the desk as fast as she can. Alarmed, Sue manages a “What –?” before her head turns towards the window. “Shit!” 

Without thinking, Emma’s stumbling towards the door, holding her blouse together. She remembers, just in time, to pull her skirt down before she opens it, and when she does, Quinn and Rachel are already halfway down the hall, walking fast. 

“Girls,” she says, weakly, stepping out of the doorframe.

They stop, turning around. 

“We didn’t see anything,” Rachel says, in a tone that means they saw everything. Emma’s knees wobble, and she forces them together, praying that the dampness on the inside of her thighs isn’t visible. She sees herself through their eyes. What must they think of her? Playing with her body like that, touching herself like a slut, and for the woman who’d done her damnedest over the years to make their lives a living hell. Emma imagines what they’d looked like to Rachel and Quinn – a spectacle. A debauched, hedonist spectacle.

“And what we didn’t see is none of our business,” Quinn adds. “Um, Ms. Pillsbury, you might want to go to the bathroom and clean yourself up. You’ve still got a while before everyone gets here, Rachel and I just came a little early to see if the choir room was unlocked –” She cuts herself off. “We’re really, really sorry, and we’re going to go now before this gets any more embarrassing. Come on, Rachel.”

They’ve rounded the corner before Emma remembers what she’d wanted to say. 

“Please don’t tell anyone,” she calls after them. “Please!”

“Emma,” Sue says from the doorway, “that isn’t going to help,” and Emma whirls around, trembling. 

“This is all your fault. If you hadn’t pushed me –”

“Hold your horses, lady. None of this was my idea, I didn’t make you do a damn thing you didn’t –”

“I didn’t _do_ this before you!” she cries, conveniently forgetting the Rocky Horror interlude. “I was a decent person, I didn’t want anyone to touch me, and then _you_ came along and made me _like_ it, made me – in front of those girls –” Emma can’t say it. She knows, with a sick certainty, that she will never again be able to touch herself or anyone else again without resurrecting that feeling of nauseating exposure. “They saw you, too. Why aren’t you more upset about this? What’s the matter with you?”

“What they saw,” Sue says, far too calmly for Emma, “was two consenting adults enjoying themselves. Now, I’ll admit that I’m not thrilled Q and Tzeitel were privy to what was meant to be a private moment between you and me, but it’s far from the end of the world. They’ll repress the memory and move on. I recommend you do the same.” She reaches for Emma, but Emma steps back, avoiding her touch. “Come back inside. We need to clean off my desk. I know how much you enjoy doing that.”

“No!”

“Emma, just calm –“

“Stop calling me Emma!” 

She isn’t crying. This feels too awful for tears. Her stomach cramps again and again, until Emma thinks she might be sick, and she can feel the sweat beading on her face and neck. Beneath her closed eyelids, she sees Quinn and Rachel’s faces, bisected by the blinds, gaping in stunned astonishment. Judging her. 

“I can’t do this,” she says. One hand lifts to cover her face, just before she remembers it's cracked with the dried remains of her earlier arousal. A wave of self-revulsion swamps her. “I need to leave. I need to get out of here. Oh, my god. Oh, my god.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Sue says, astonished, and Emma repeats, the pitch of her voice rising into near hysteria, “I need to leave. I need to get out of here.”

“This is ridiculous. Calm down. Right now.” 

She could run. Emma could just take off and run down the hallway, out the front doors of McKinley, into the parking lot, towards the football field, and for a second she imagines pushing past Sue, getting away, getting out. Instead, she manages to control herself long enough to say, “Will you please just let me go into your office by myself so I can get dressed again?”

Sue looks as though she’s going to protest that Emma doesn’t have anything she hasn’t already seen, but by some miracle of acquired sensitivity she nods, instead, and moves out of the doorframe. 

Once she’s inside, the first thing Emma does is to pull the blind cord shut. 

She takes a few steps back from the window, not looking where she’s going, and stumbles backwards into the desk. Shame hits her again with the impact, a fresh surge of panic, and Emma’s chest constricts until she thinks her lungs can’t expand to let in any more air. Fumbling for support, she finds the edge of the desk, trying to breathe normally, but her gasps are too short, and she can’t get enough oxygen. 

_They saw me_ , she thinks, over and over again. The words begin to lose meaning, until all that’s left is their horror. _They saw me. They saw me. They saw me._

Eventually, she sits on the floor, against the wall, knees pressing against her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. Emma hugs herself as tightly as she can and waits until the sharpest edges of her panic begin, mercifully, to dull. 

When she emerges, Sue doesn’t ask why Emma’s taken fifteen minutes to find her underwear and purse. Instead, she stares at her with an expression of concern Emma can’t bear to take in. The last thing she wants or needs right now is Sue’s pity. 

“You have to drive,” she says, through a dry mouth, and blindly pushes the car keys in Sue’s direction. “I need you to drive. Please.”

They head home together in silence, Emma realizing that in just a few minutes, Kurt and Puck and Mercedes will be wondering where in the world she is. Quinn and Rachel, cautious with their news, telling the others in hushed voices curdled with their disgust. Well, whatever disgust they’re feeling, it’s nothing compared to the revulsion Emma has right now for her own behavior. 

She stays in the shower until the water runs cold, punishing her skin. Underneath the showerhead, spray flooding her, she can’t hear anything. Not the rush of blood in her ears, or the sound of her teeth chattering, or the faint knocks on the bathroom door. Three months ago, she never would’ve gotten herself into a situation like this. Three months ago, she would’ve gone swimming in a public pool before exposing herself to another person. She’s become impulsive. Careless. Messy. 

Spotlighted by her humiliation, the last three months seem impossibly naïve. How had Emma ever thought this would be a good idea? How had she ever thought this undefined thing between the two of them wouldn’t end in disaster? Sue, she understands now, was right. They’ve been heading towards one conclusion all along. 

She imagines Rachel ringing Will’s doorbell. _Mr. Schuester, this is very embarrassing information, and I don’t quite know how to say it, but it’s something I feel you should know._ Her brain conjures up the stares of students and faculty as she walks down the gauntlet of the hallway, followed by knowing whispers and giggles. 

Emma waits until Sue’s asleep to get up from where she’s been lying stiff, as far on the edge of the mattress as physically possible, her throat closing with anxiety. Quietly, so as not to disturb Sue, she takes her suitcases out of the narrow bedroom closet.

___________

It’s after midnight when Emma arrives on Shannon’s doorstep, a suitcase in either hand.

Shannon rubs her face, bleary-eyed. “Emma, what –?”

“I left her,” she says, not caring what it sounds like. Rachel Berry knows, and therefore it’s only a matter of time before everyone else finds out. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

If Shannon understands, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she pulls the door back, widening it so that Emma can step inside.

“Thank you,” she tells Shannon, and wonders, wildly, if she’s just come straight from her breakup with Will, if the summer’s been one long fever dream, if she’s back right where she started.

Emma sleeps on the couch that night. 

In the morning, she feels much calmer, the fog of panic receded almost completely from her brain and body. At the breakfast table, Shannon waits until Emma’s cut a piece of toast with marmalade into sixteenths, eating about a quarter of it, before she puts down her cup of coffee and says, “All right. I can’t keep myself quiet any longer. What happened?”

 _What happened_. And she’d thought telling Shannon about Will was humiliating. 

“Sue and I,” she begins, and spears a piece of toast she has no intention of eating. “We, uh. We’re involved. Romantically. We _were_ involved. It started after you left.” 

She supposes the past tense is appropriate now, even though using it just ramps up her misery. Not even an entire month. It feels so much longer to Emma.

Shannon exhales, long and slow. “Well, shit,” she says. “That’s unexpected. Although it sure explains the way you two were acting when you came over last week. Still never would’ve guessed it in a million years. You have feelings for her?”

“Of course not!” Emma exclaims, and then, “I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. It’s not that simple.”

“No kidding, punkin. Nothing ever is. Why’d you leave? Sue say something to you, act mean, push you away?”

This part is even worse. Slowly, she relates to Shannon the events of the previous evening, glossing rapidly over any details of her liaison with Sue, focusing on the mortification she’d felt in front of Quinn and Rachel, the instinct she’d had to get away, as fast as possible. 

“I had to,” she explains, and waits for Shannon to validate her decision, to make Emma feel better with a country analogy and some folksy wisdom. Instead, Shannon squints at her, forehead wrinkling in confusion. 

“Let me get this straight,” she says. “You walked out on Sue without so much as a goodbye, right before her due date, just ‘cause a couple of students caught you with your skirt up? Tell me what I’m missing, Emma. From where I’m sitting, I can’t see any ‘had to’ about it at all.” 

“I left her a note,” Emma protests, weakly. She’d scribbled a short, vague message on the pad of paper in the kitchen. “I just – I realized she was right about us. I didn’t know what I was doing. She’s going to have a baby, and she’s – well, she’s Sue _Sylvester_ , for heaven’s sake – I don’t know why I ever – ”

“She make you happy?”

“What?”

“It’s not a hard question. Forget that we’re talking about Sue. Does she make you happy? She good to you?”

“Yes, but –” 

“You like how you feel about yourself when you’re with her?”

“Do I like – ?” The question’s never occurred to Emma before. She tries to remember a time before the world felt like it was closing in on her. “I think so. Yes.”

“Well, if that’s the case, it sure sounds to me like you owe her more than a damn note,” Shannon tells her, standing up. “You’re my friend, and that means I give you a roof over your head and love you even when you’re acting dumb, but you need to grow the hell up and start realizing that your actions have results. What do you think Sue’s going through right now, with that baby just a couple of days away? Me, I’d be madder than the snake that married the fire hose. You sure screwed up, pal. You screwed up big time.” She shakes her head, carrying her coffee cup into the kitchen. 

The toast can’t be cut into smaller pieces. Emma pushes at the crumbs briefly with her fork before setting it down next to the plate. She hadn’t thought about how Sue would feel, waking up to find her gone. Well, to be more accurate, she had, but she’d rationalized it by reasoning that Sue had expected something like this all along, that Sue had told her, in no uncertain terms, that the honeymoon couldn’t last.

Expecting and facing certainly aren’t the same thing, though. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she says to herself, and waits for an answer that doesn’t come.

___________

All of these are appealing, and none are remotely plausible. She tries again, writing quickly:

Slightly more doable, still tempting. Not realistic, though, if Quinn and Rachel had told even one person about what they’d seen.

But she can’t ask Shannon to do that, even if Shannon would agree, and Emma has the sense that at this point, Shannon would tell Emma, with gentle emphasis, to go take a long walk off a short pier. At any rate, this isn’t Shannon’s problem to solve. It’s Emma’s.

When she writes it, she knows by the way her heart’s in her throat that she’s landed on the correct answer. But the thought of facing Sue’s fury is petrifying. Who knows what she might say to Emma? What if she won’t say anything to her at all? Silence would be so much worse than any invective Sue could hurl her way.

Good gravy, she’d actually left Sue in the middle of the night, without even giving her the courtesy of a real explanation, just because she’d let her panic take over entirely. Shannon’s right. Whatever happens, whatever Quinn and Rachel might do, whatever complications little Susie’s arrival promises, Emma knows she owes Sue more than that. What kind of a person just cuts tail and runs? 

“I do,” she says, out loud, miserably, and it isn’t self-pity. It’s simple recognition. “I’m the kind of person who does that.” 

_She make you happy? You like how you feel about yourself when you’re with her?_

Emma sits very still, pen still poised over paper, not seeing the words on the page. She remembers the first time she’d snuggled into the crook of Sue’s arm, falling asleep there as easily as she’d ever done on her own. She thinks about long, rambling conversations at the dining room table. Enjoying violent movies even though she’d never admit it, because Sue’s engrossed face and delighted reactions more than offset the slight wooziness she’d felt when Bruce Willis took out five guys at once. The surprising warmth of Sue’s laughter overlapping with Becky Jackson’s. Sue’s unreserved determination to be a good parent. Finding the strength to stand up to her mother on Sue’s behalf, on her own behalf. The feel of Sue’s hand resting on her thigh under the table, thanking Emma silently. How she’d learned, slowly, to forget the mess of their bodies and focus on Sue’s urgent, cracking voice in her ear, asking for more, never doubting for a second that Emma could give her what she wanted. 

She’s run away from all of that, too. 

Emma clutches the pen in her right hand until her knuckles turn white. 

“It’s me,” she blurts out. “It’s Emma. Don’t hang up.”

A pause, and then she hears the click of a receiver, followed by the dial tone. 

Well, she’d expected that, hadn’t she? Emma presses redial and listens. Sue answers on the eighth ring, not speaking.

“It’s me again,” she says. 

Sue promptly hangs up. 

On the third try, she starts speaking before identifying herself, all in a rush so that she can it get out. “I know you don’t like it when I apologize to you, but you’ve got to let me –”

“I don’t have to _let_ you do anything,” Sue interrupts. Her voice could cut steel. “I have no obligations to you whatsoever. You made your choice when you snuck out of this house like a coward.”

Emma tries to collect herself. “I was scared. It was wrong of me, I know, but I want to –”

“You think you’re the only one who gets scared? You think I didn’t realize what could happen because those kids saw us together? I was ready to sit down with you and plan out a course of action, and then you put your feathered tail between your legs and hopped out that front door faster than a politician from the truth. Wherever the hell you are, you can just stay there. I don’t consort with quitters.”

“Sue, I never wanted –”

“You mean nothing to me,” Sue snaps, “and you have never meant anything to me. Get that through your oversized head.” 

She slams down the receiver, and Emma’s stomach tightens, not with anxiety but with the worst kind of guilt. It’s clear to her that Sue, despite her aggressive words, is _hurt_. Badly. 

She tries calling back a fourth time, but Sue doesn’t answer, not even on the ninth ring, or the tenth. 

The night before Sue’s delivery date, Emma’s particularly sleepless. Not just because Shannon’s couch has a metal frame and thin cushions, and not because Emma’s gotten used to curling up next to a familiar, comfortable body, but because her options, at this point, seem limited. If Sue won’t let her explain over the phone, then Emma’s chances of repairing things from a distance are slim to none. It’s in person or nothing at all. And since Susie’s on her way in a matter of hours, Emma’s window of opportunity is closing. The demands of newborn babies, she knows, have a way of making difficult conversations impossible.

She could leave Sue to have the baby on her own, just like Sue’s always said she preferred. Emma could take Sue at her word. But since when has Emma ever taken Sue at her word? Sue’s words have never, as long as Emma’s known her, been the full story. Or the true one.

Emma understands the implications of going back to Sue and asking for forgiveness; what it would mean if Sue took her in again, this time on different terms. It scares her, of course it does. She's still nauseous from the memory of Rachel and Quinn's stunned faces, and that awful feeling of exposure. Somehow, though, none of that feels quite as awful as the realization that she's abandoned Sue, that she’s hurt her, that Emma isn't sharing her day with Sue at the dinner table anymore, that Sue's no longer there to reach for her in the dark. 

_I do mean something to her,_ Emma thinks, wondering why it’s taken this long to figure it out. _I couldn’t have hurt her in the first place if I didn’t_. 

She stares up at the ceiling, aware of the couch’s metal frame pressing firmly into her spine, and makes a decision, feeling every aching, solid inch of the backbone Sue’s always insisted Emma was missing.

___________

Usually, Emma finds hospitals comforting. Yes, they’re places that necessarily harbor disease and infection, but they also have countless items that keep those things at bay. She often orders her personal supplies off discount hospital warehouse websites, getting a little dreamy over all the different ways they promise to keep her clean and hygienic. When she was a little girl, she’d wanted to grow up to live in a hospital. Not to be a doctor, or a nurse, but to rent a room of her own, and to wear a hospital gown and sterilize her pencils and have an endless supply of rubber gloves.

Today, though, she isn’t thinking about any of that. Nothing’s comforting about what she’s doing, but that’s all right, because Emma knows now is not the time to be comfortable, or safe. It’s the time to be brave.

“Excuse me,” she says, leaning over the tall desk to catch the attention of the maternity ward nurse on duty. “Where would I find someone who was about to have a c-section?”

The nurse looks up from her computer. “You family?” she asks. “On the birth partner admit list? Because otherwise you’re gonna have to wait right there.” She points behind Emma, towards a row of chairs, magazines fanned out on a table in the corner. 

“I’m – uh – I’m not family,” Emma admits. “But it’s important that I’m in there with her.” She glances at the nurse’s name badge. “Nurse Gibbons,” she says, trying for a personal appeal. “Please. She’s all by herself.” 

“Doesn’t matter what you think she’d want or what you want,” Nurse Gibbons says. “Either you’re on the admit list, or you’re sitting out here until she’s through. What’s her name?”

Emma gives it, and the nurse types a few words into the computer, clicking buttons, scrolling with her mouse. “Susan Sylvester,” she reads off the screen. “Okay, here’s her admit list. I take it you’re not Madonna Louise Ciccone?”

Why isn’t she surprised by this? “No.”

“Didn’t think so. I can’t read this other damn name – Daenerys Targaryen? The hell kind of name is that? She a foreigner?”

“Well –” Now isn’t the time to explain, not that she’d be able to explain Sue to anyone who hasn’t met her. “Sort of. You could say that. Is there anyone else?”

“Yeah,” Nurse Gibbons tells her. “One more.”

When the nurse reads Emma’s name back to her, Emma almost doesn’t recognize it as her own. She thinks, for a second, _I don’t know who that is, is she a celebrity?_ and then – oh. _Oh_.

“I’m Emma Pillsbury,” she says, as if it’s something she’s just learned. “That’s me. I’m Emma.” 

After all of Sue’s bluster about keeping Emma away from the delivery, about solo missions and separate lives and inevitable endings, she’d still placed Emma on her admit list. And she hadn’t removed her name after Emma had run to Shannon’s, either. Maybe she’d forgotten, maybe it was a detail she’d overlooked, but Emma’s sure, deep down, that Sue Sylvester doesn’t overlook things, not even when she’s preparing to deliver her child. Especially not then.

For the first time in three days, Emma feels the small stirrings of hope. 

She thrusts her driver’s license into Nurse Gibbons’s face, and signs the paper placed in front of her without reading it. “We gotta get you into surgical scrubs before I take you in,” the nurse tells her. “It’s a sterile environment, you need to wash your hands too.” 

Emma thinks, silly with nervousness, that her entire compulsive life might’ve prepared her for this moment.

What she isn’t prepared for is the scene in front of her when Nurse Gibbons shows her into the operating room. Sue’s lying prone on the table, a curtain dividing her body just below her shoulders, blocking her view. Three other people are in the room with her, one scrubbing the bared dome of her belly, the other two, a man and a woman, busying themselves over a tray of sharp instruments. Sue’s eyes are closed. Her face looks haggard, drawn, older than usual, and for a second Emma is positive something is seriously wrong. 

“Excuse me, Dr. Reyes,” Nurse Gibbons says, and the woman looks up, pulling on a set of gloves that Emma can identify even ten feet away: hypoallergenic, sterilized, polyisoprene. “The birth partner’s here. Emma Pillsbury.”

Sue opens her eyes and looks in Emma’s direction.

“You look terrible,” she says immediately, and then snaps her mouth shut, as if she’s remembered she isn’t on speaking terms with Emma.

“You’re just in time, Emma. We’re about to get started. You’re a friend of Sue’s?”

Emma ignores Sue. “Yes," she tells Dr. Reyes. "Something like that. I’m trying to be, anyway.” 

“A full-time job, I’m sure,” the doctor comments, straight-faced. “Are you ready, Sue?”

When Sue stays quiet, Emma walks up to the top part of the table and crouches down so that she’s parallel with her. “I’m not asking you to forgive me right now for what I did,” she says, quietly, “and if you really want me to leave, just tell me, and I will. But you shouldn’t have to go through this by yourself. Let me be here for you and the baby.”

Sue blinks several times, and purses her lips together in a thin line. Her head gives a short, quick jerk upwards, and Emma, relieved, understands that this means yes.

“You’re going to be just fine,” she promises her. 

“Of course I’ll be just fine,” Sue says, like Emma’s a fool for implying any other outcome could be possible. “I’m Sue Sylvester.” To Dr. Reyes, she announces, “You may begin.”

Emma stays as far on the other side of the drape as she physically can without leaving the table, determined she won’t see the incision. She’s vowed to be brave, but she can only be so strong without faltering. Sue notices her obvious discomfort, and mutters that any observer would assume that, of the two of them, Emma’s the one currently being sliced into like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m all right,” Emma reassures her, knowing she must be entirely white. She’d been sure she’d heard the faint slice of the scalpel as Dr. Reyes had begun the procedure. “I am just, wow, I am completely fine and dandy. I’ve never been better in my life. Fantastic.” Her mouth stretches into a ghoulish grin.

Sue hisses, “Don’t you dare faint on me, Pillsbury,” but the threat lacks her normal vehemence or creativity, and her eyes are glassy with missing focus. “I can feel it,” she says, “it feels like _tugging_ ,” and then, suddenly, the room fills with a loud cry, a hiccupping, ragged shriek that just might be the most astonishing thing Emma’s ever heard. She holds her breath as Dr. Reyes’s hands lift over the drape, holding a tiny, squalling, human being.

“It’s a beautiful baby girl,” Dr. Reyes says cheerfully, holding her up over the drape for Sue and Emma to see. “Congratulations, Mom.”

Emma stares, finding it difficult to comprehend just how everything’s changed so quickly, how one minute’s made the difference between nothing and a brand new life. Susie shrieks in protest at the bright lights and the towel vigorously cleaning her off, the brief shock of dark hair on the top of her head standing out against her pinked skin. 

There’s a small, choked sound from the table next to her. Emma looks down, dazed, at Sue, who’s staring at the baby with an expression Emma’s never seen from her before. 

“That’s my daughter,” Sue says, and her voice breaks. “God. That’s my _daughter_.”

While the surgical team takes Susie over to a side table to perform the APGAR, the baby's forceful cries already rivaling the volume of her mother’s megaphone, Emma crouches at Sue’s head. “You did such a good job,” she says, softly, trying to find the words she wants, and failing. “She’s incredible. She’s so beautiful.”

Sue’s nodding again and again in agreement, like she can’t bring herself to speak. Finally, she rasps, “Stand up. You need to tell me what’s going on. Tell me everything. I don’t want to miss a moment of her life.”

Emma wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and straightens up. Her hand rests on Sue’s shoulder as she begins to narrate what she's seeing, and while she’s talking, Sue slowly turns her face to rest against Emma’s fingers.

Finally, when the APGAR’s completed and the baby’s been swaddled, Dr. Reyes brings over the small bundle, squalling inside the cocoon of her blanket. “A perfect ten,” she announces to Sue, who beams, and then turns to Emma. “Would you want to hold the baby? Sue can’t take her until the arm numbness from the epidural’s worn off, but you can, if you’d like, while we close the incision.”

At first, she’s going to demure, her instinctual response, but then Susie turns her face towards Emma, her rosebud mouth working, her round cheeks and flat nose twitching as she sniffs new air. A pang of unexpected, uninvited longing assaults Emma, strong enough to bring new tears to her eyes. “Oh, yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I want to do that.” 

She’s so small, smaller even than Emma had expected. Susie wriggles in Emma’s inexpert hands, moving like she isn’t the least bit afraid Emma will drop her, like she’s got somewhere she needs to be. Emma cups the back of the baby’s head with one hand, pulling her in close, and bends down again, bringing Susie as near as she can to Sue. The baby wrinkles her nose and lets out a noisy cry that fades into loud snuffles.

“Here she is,” Emma murmurs, not knowing if she’s talking to the baby or to Sue, and pure joy softens Sue’s face into something unrecognizable.

___________

While mother and daughter are being monitored in the recovery area, Emma excuses herself to run down to the hospital gift shop. The art supplies are unsurprisingly limited, but at least they’ve got some nice quality paper and colored pencils. She can make do, especially under the circumstances, and at any rate, she doesn’t think that Sue will be paying much attention to the lack of professional quality, considering what she’s got planned.

In line to pay for her materials, she fires off a quick text to Shannon, knowing Shannon would appreciate hearing the news: _At hospital. Baby born! Mother and daughter doing great._ Sure enough, Shannon texts back promptly: _Tell her congrats & that I’ll be over to meet the little rugrat as soon as they’re ready for me. Glad u got your head out of ur butt in time._

Feeling like she can afford to be generous right now, Emma sends another text to Will. After all, he and Sue have been through a lot together, over the years, and she knows he wishes her well. 

In less than a minute, her phone buzzes with his reply. She can almost hear his voice, just reading it. _Great news!!! Tell Sue I’m thrilled for her. Thx for letting me know Emma._

Smiling, she puts her phone back in her purse, and realizes that the prospect of Will learning about her and Sue from Rachel doesn’t terrify her nearly as much as it had just a few days ago. There’s a million unknowns, and the thought of what Figgins and the school board might say or do if they found out still makes Emma uneasy, but her overall apprehension is nothing compared to the misery she’s felt over the last few days. 

None of that really matters, though, not yet, because everything’s still unresolved. There’s a lot of work ahead for Emma, if she’s going to convince Sue to let her back into her life, and Susie’s life, now, too.

Back on the fourth floor, she finds a chair in the waiting area next to a corner table and gets out her supplies, working quickly and quietly. Her hands are steady and certain as they shade in shapes, making lines, writing words in large, blocked letters and small, careful print. 

After nearly two hours’ work, she’s as ready as she’ll ever be. 

When Emma enters the recovery room, knocking softly at the door before walking in, she finds Sue sitting up in bed, cradling Susie in her arms. For a woman who’s just been through surgery, she looks shockingly like her normal self, if a bit less choleric than usual. 

“Thought you’d run out on me again,” Sue says, without glancing up. 

Emma blushes. She deserves that. “No,” she replies, with enough strength behind the word that Sue, finally, raises her head. 

“No?” Sue lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Am I supposed to _reward_ you for this remarkable feat?”

“Of course not.” She tries to change the subject. “How’s Susie doing?"

“My child happens to be asleep at the moment.” Sue pronounces the words “my child” with deep satisfaction. “And her name is Robin.”

“Robin? I thought –”

“She’s not me. She deserves better. You, my exceptional little girl,” she coos, turning back to the baby, “are named after the greatest performer to ever grace a waxy, perfectly tailored leisure suit.”

It takes Emma a second to parse this. “Robin _Gibb_?”

“Do not,” Sue warns her, “breathe a single word against that glorious man in my presence, may his soul rest in funky, glittery heaven. Understand?”

Emma doesn’t, but then again, she doesn’t understand a good thirty-five percent of what comes out of Sue’s mouth on any given occasion, so she refrains from further comment. It’s Sue’s decision, of course, and despite the dubious source of the tribute, Robin is actually a lovely name. It makes Emma think of spring and fresh starts. She pictures a robin in the branches of a leafy tree, chirping, small and colorful, a red-orange splash against the green and brown.

“A red bird,” she says, and then her eyes widen in recognition.

“Normally, I respect your commitment to non sequiturs, Evelyn, as someone who puts a high price on the art of verbal confusion, but right now I’m gonna have to ask you to clarify.”

“Robins.” Emma’s face feels hot. “I was just thinking out loud. I, well, I know you’re really naming her after Robin Gibb, but I was under the impression that you weren’t fond of birds.” She’s treading on dangerous ground, but Emma can’t seem to stop herself from pushing. “That they mean nothing to you.”

Sue doesn’t acknowledge this remark at first. She strokes the side of Robin’s face with her thumb. The baby lets out a sharp shriek, and then falls silent, legs kicking earnestly. Emma remembers that feel of that small foot against her hand, three months ago. She’d met Robin for the first time in the silence of Sue’s dark bedroom, the three of them nestled together.

“In 1987,” Sue says finally, “I made the fateful decision to attend a concert in Akron headlined by A Flock of Seagulls. During that concert, my car’s windshield was destroyed, covered in a snowy, clotted spray of excreta that took me five hours worth of illegal child labor to scrub off. I vowed then to hold a lifelong grudge against the entire avian race. With no exceptions.”

“No exceptions?”

“None. But,” she continues, and Emma can’t help but hold her breath, “it just so happens that over the past few months, I seem to have developed an unexpected, entirely inconvenient, and completely unnecessary fondness for birds.”

“Even,” Emma asks, softly, “the red ones?”

Sue inclines her head. “Despite considerable efforts to persuade myself otherwise,” she says, “yes. For the red ones in particular.”

It won’t make the inside of a Hallmark card any time soon, but Emma, overwhelmed, thinks the sentiment might just be the most wonderful thing she’s heard in a very long time.

“I have a few informational pamphlets I’d like you to read,” she announces, after she's recovered her voice, and produces her small stack of papers, placing them on Sue’s lap before taking a few steps in nervous retreat. “They aren’t professional quality. I was – I had limited time. I hope you understand. You know, if you want, I’d be happy to go outside while you read them. I think that might be more comfortable for both of us. Or I can drive across town and wait there, that’s fine too.”

“You’ll stay right here,” Sue orders, beckoning Emma back towards the bed. She shifts Robin's weight to one arm and picks up the top pamphlet. “‘Ow, My Retirement Account! Mothering On A Budget In Mid-Life.’ Well, this really is a _fantastic_ confidence booster, Emilia, thank you for taking the time and effort to share it with me.”

“There’s some advice inside on how to save with a new baby.” She’s never been this nervous in her life, not even with Will, not even on her first day as a counselor. “I’ve been doing a lot of research online. It turns out that you’re eligible for some extra tax deductions, and I even found a message board entirely reserved for first time mothers over the age of thirty-five. They had a lot of great tips. You’d be running that place in no time, if you started posting.”

Sue purses her lips, and puts the first pamphlet aside. “‘Regret: Not Just For Unfaithful Senators Anymore.’” 

“I should never have done what I did,” Emma says, without hesitating. “I was scared about what might happen, and angry at myself, and I took it out on you. I know apologizing doesn’t make it right, but if you forgive me, I promise that I’ll never do anything like that again.”

No reply. Sue uncovers the third pamphlet, which reads, in big red letters, _2-4-6-8, Who Do I Appreciate? You!_ Emma’s tried to recreate the same font Sue uses for her Cheerios merchandise, with not inconsiderable success. It’s a silly message, but it’s true, too. Sue’s always refused to treat Emma with kid gloves. She'd given her a home without a second’s hesitation. She’d helped Emma feel safe enough, for the first time in her life, to feel good about her body.

“What the hell is this?” Sue asks, looking up at Emma, clearly confused, and Emma says, “Keep going. There’s one more.”

It takes Sue several long seconds to pick up the next pamphlet. She stares at the cover. Emma tries to remember how to stay upright.

 _So You’ve Realized You Want To Put A Label On It_.

“That’s one’s really for me,” Emma bursts out, unable to stay silent, “that’s, um, that’s something that applies mostly to me, but I’m hoping it might apply to you, too. If you want. You were wrong, you know, when you said I was rebounding from Will. This isn’t a rebound for me. I have –” She stumbles over her words. “Feelings. Real feelings. For you. And I think you have the same feelings for me.”

Sue’s opening the pamphlet to the blank pages inside, her face inscrutable. “There’s nothing written here.” 

“That’s because,” Emma says, simply, “it isn’t up to me to write the next part.” 

Sue passes a hand over her eyes. “Emma,” she says, bouncing Robin gently in her arm as the baby begins to fuss. “I have spent my entire existence on this planet relentlessly percolating with fury, and it has managed to keep me from forming any remotely healthy relationships with people who weren’t my sister, or Becky Jackson. I now have a newborn child who has a lifetime of very real challenges ahead of her. My job security is tenuous, at best. And despite my admittedly masculine hairstyle and broad shoulders, I am still very much a member of the female sex, with all the problems and difficulties that reality entails. You’re telling me _that’s_ what you want for yourself?” 

Reaching down, Emma touches the baby’s tiny, moving fist with her finger. It’s unbelievably soft. Robin shifts in Sue’s arm, making small, irritated noises.

“When I decided to start seeing my psychiatrist,” she begins, “it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. Harder than leaving Carl, or leaving Will, or telling my parents I was moving out of the house for college. Because I had to admit to myself that I was sick, that I was really sick, that I couldn’t get better on my own. I thought, wow, that’s it, I’m thirty-two and I can’t leave the house without making sure all the sinks are properly disinfected. I’ve ruined any chance I had at having a good life. But I was wrong. Sue, I’m not perfect. I am so incredibly far from perfect in every conceivable way. For the first time in my life, I’m learning how to be okay with that. And if you’ll have me, I want to try being imperfect with you. Both of us. Two very imperfect, improbable people.” She presses her fingers softly against the side of Robin’s head. “Three people.”

Sue cradles Robin closer. The last pamphlet’s still clenched tightly in her free hand.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” she says, and the pamphlet trembles just a little. When she looks at Emma, her eyes are soft, a little wet. “No idea. You’ve never even changed a diaper.”

“No,” Emma admits, and sits down on the edge of the bed, her hand coming to rest just above Sue’s shaking one, over her wrist and forearm. “That’s true. But I’m willing to learn.” She doesn’t mention the industrial sized box of hypoallergenic gloves she’d found in the hospital gift shop, purchased for exactly that purpose in a moment of uncharacteristic optimism. Or the book on caring for newborns. “And I’m not going to run away again. I may not know what I’m doing, or how to do it, and you better bet I’m scared. The thing is, though, for the first time in my life, the idea of _not_ doing something is what frightens me the most.”

Her words stay in the room, loud to Emma even after she’s spoken them. Just when Emma’s starting to wonder if there’s something else she could say, some other part of her she could reveal, Sue’s hand begins to turn slowly in hers, releasing the pamphlet, opening up to let her in.


End file.
